There's No One Left That I Love
by PrettyAverageWhiteShark
Summary: "He can't hurt me. There's no one left that I love." A look into the past life of Johanna Mason, the District 7 Victor with the wicked ability to kill. Rated T for some violence and language.
1. Prologue (The Fisherman's Daughter)

Today was the last day of the Games. Johanna could feel it.

The air was quiet and hot. She shifted, trying unsuccessfully to get comfortable. Her lip lifted in irritation as she escaped the branch jabbing into her shoulder blade, only to have another immediately replace it in her ribs. She leaned forward against her legs, blowing air slowly from her nostrils. Her back ached in protest. She hadn't hidden in a thicket of bushes for the cozy accommodations, though, and this certainly wasn't the worst place she'd been in the last two and a half weeks. Her leg throbbed. She pulled back the top layer of the bandage. The deep maroon stain was starting to show through the wadded cloth.

_Stupid fucking Career._

They had taken each other by surprise. Johanna had been sprinting hard after the squirrely boy from 8. He was quick, darting through the trees just ahead of her. He was tiring, though, and the distance between them was growing shorter and shorter. Johanna prepared her ax, lifting it to strike as soon as she was within arm's reach. But then, without warning, the boy had stopped dead, a length of steel protruding from his back. Johanna nearly impaled herself but pulled up short a few inches before collision, looking in shock from the standing corpse to his killer. The Career holding the sword looked equally as stunned by Johanna, clearly not expecting a second arrival.

The surprise lasted only an instant. Then the Career ripped the sword from the boy's body. Johanna swung hard with her ax, slashing deep across the Career's right shoulder. He howled, swinging wildly. Johanna dodged, but his flailing weapon caught her on the thigh. She hissed, falling back, her back slamming hard against a tree. The Career advanced, swinging the sword clumsily with his left arm. She ducked. The sword connected hard with the tree, sticking in the bark. He tugged at the weapon, and the moment's distraction was all she needed to bury her ax in the underside of his chin.

The action of the battle must have pleased some wealthy Capitol citizens, because not long after she had tied her shirt around the wound to stop the bleeding, the gentle _ting ting_ of an incoming parachute reached her ears. Inside the package was a roll of white bandaging gauze and some jerked meat and water. Though grateful for the gift, she rolled her eyes internally - nothing else, no medication or any sort of salve to stop the bleeding, had been included. No doubt her sponsors were growing impatient, and they knew that an effective but temporary fix for this injury would drive her to finish the games sooner rather than later.

Still, she knew that she couldn't finish all the remaining Tributes on her own, not in this state. She moved as far away as she could from where the Career and District 8 boy had died; no doubt the remaining tributes had seen the hovercrafts remove the bodies, and she didn't want to be around when they came to investigate. Three more cannons went off while she hid. That night, she mentally checked off the faces that shone in the sky - by her count, the only tribute left was the girl from District 4.

Johanna didn't remember much about her. She had kept to herself during pre-Game training and hadn't gotten a very high score at the final evaluation. But if she was nearly the last one standing, no doubt she had some tricks up her sleeve that she had hidden while in the Capitol. Johanna allowed herself a small smile; it seemed that she wasn't the only one who had played the weakness card.

Johanna could feel the eyes of the Capitol on her, hungry for the death match between the final tributes. She knew it wouldn't be much longer before the Gamemaker played his ace and forced the two remaining tributes together. She had seen it happen many times in previous Games. A lull would develop when there were only two or three tributes left standing. If they didn't have the initiative to kill each other on their own, hell would be unleashed.

One year it had been a cloud of flies. They had had some sort of genetic enhancement that made them ravenous for flesh. The Victor that year was crowned because he hadn't died as quickly as the other tributes who had vanished screaming under the buzzing black mass. The Capitol citizens had not been happy with that outcome. It was much too uneventful, not to mention the fact that their Victor wasn't presentable for the Victory Tour for several long months after the Games were over. The Gamemaker responsible had shortly been replaced.

While no one was going to repeat that particular stunt, Johanna didn't feel like waiting around to see what else they had in store for her.

_Let's get this over with._

Using the haft of her axe as leverage, she pushed slowly to her feet. She hissed as the numbness rippled down her legs like fire. Taking a moment to straighten, she stretched her arms over her head until her whole frame trembled. She released the stretch and a heavy breath with it, feeling her muscles loosen from their prolonged stiffness. Holding her hand over her bandaged leg to protect it from the grabbing branches, she pushed her way out of the thicket.

She made her way slowly, limping as she went, her head on a constant swivel, her muscles wound to attack at the slightest provocation. She had no way of knowing where the District 4 girl was now, but she found herself heading towards the lake at the center of the arena. While it was unlikely that the girl would take up hiding somewhere so painfully obvious, Johanna didn't know where else to go. More likely than not, when the Gamemaker stepped in to make things more interesting, he'd drive them toward the water. Johanna would be there waiting, ax in hand.

A twig snapped up ahead. Johanna froze, pulse and adrenaline launching into overdrive. She shifted her weight onto her uninjured leg. Her eyes darted furiously, trying to find the source of the noise. A low snarl, borne of fear and raw nerves, slid from between her teeth. There was a sudden burst of rustling in the tree branches to her right. She turned sharply, her arm swinging back to hurl her axe. As the weapon left her fingers, a net exploded from the thick foliage, knocking the axe off course and enveloping Johanna.

It was heavy, throwing her off balance and slamming her hard against the ground. A sharp scream reached her ears. It took her half a second to realize that the sound had ripped from her own throat as she landed almost directly on her wound. She fought against the thick ropes, only managing to tangle herself further as she struggled to escape. She felt sharp pains in her arms and face, and she knew there were probably thorns of some kind woven into the ropes. The net closed tighter and tighter around her the more she fought.

There was more rustling in the tree above her, and the District 4 girl landed with a thud from where she had been hidden. In one fist was a makeshift spear, a long stick with a knife strapped to the end. The other fist held a rope that looped around a branch and dropped down again to act as the drawstring for the net.

Johanna screamed at her captor, rage stripping her throat raw, still trying desperately to escape.

"Don't fight," the girl said quietly when the sound trailed away. When Johanna ignored the advice, she pulled the rope. Johanna yelped as the net closed tighter, the pricks piercing her skin. She snarled wolfishly at the girl, but lay still.

The District 4 girl was small. She was young, probably not more than fifteen years old. She looked like hell. Her tanned skin was scratched and bruised everywhere; what looked like teeth marks made an ugly red mark on her left shoulder. Her sun-bleached hair was dirty and ratted. A long cut ran from the underside of her ear, crossed her eyebrow, and ended at her hairline. She looked sadly down at Johanna with deep blue eyes.

"What are you waiting for?" Johanna said harshly. "Kill me, already."

The girl didn't reply. She rested her spear against the trunk of a tree and took a few steps forward, bending down and picking up Johanna's axe from where it had gotten tangled in the net. Johanna jerked impulsively, her fingers itching for the weapon. The girl started, stepping back, her grip tightening on the axe.

"Are you armed?" she asked.

"Not _anymore._"

The girl nodded. She crouched at the base of the tree, resting her back against the trunk. Johanna stared, dumbfounded. What was she doing? Was she going to torture her? Toy with her before she killed her?

"It's Johanna, right?" The girl's voice interrupted her thoughts.

Johanna's jaw was open, working soundlessly in enraged confusion. Finally she found her tongue and let rip with the first thing that came to mind: "What the_ fuck_ -"

The girl cut her off, "You might as well answer the question. I mean––" She gestured to Johanna's netted body. "––you're not exactly going anywhere."

Johanna bared her teeth, "Yes, my name is Johanna. What's _yours?_" Her voice dripped with acid sarcasm.

"Elleni," the girl said simply.

"Alright," Johanna said slowly, fury fueling her deliberation, "_Elleni._ Would you be a dear and get on with this? If you're not sure how to kill someone with an ax, let me out of this net and I'd be more than happy to demonstrate."

Elleni laughed, and the sound was one of genuine amusement. Johanna felt it like a slap in the face. She hadn't heard laughter like that since she was home, since well before all this had started. Since she had seen Rowan. Her gut curled in sudden sickness, and coldness washed over her.

Rowan.

She had forgotten her. All at once, everything rushed in - the sound of her voice, the color of her eyes when she laughed, the musk of her skin after a day immersed in the forest. Her small, calloused hands, their size belying their strength. The scars that kissed their way across her body - the small puckered ones memories of steel ax tips and splinters, the one that curved across the ribs on her right side a reminder of when she had nearly died for Johanna. Her Rowan, the whole reason she had torn through the bodies and lives of children without hesitation, with savagery untempered by remorse or rational emotion. And Johanna had forgotten.

"Why are you here?" Elleni asked, sliding her fingers down the haft of the ax, clearly dismissing Johanna's threat.

"What?" Johanna said, startled to find tears in her eyes after her reverie.

"Why are you here?" she repeated, looking over at Johanna. "Why have you survived? What have you been fighting for?"

Johanna struggled for words, blinking, her head shaking. "S-someone."

Elleni nodded as though it was the most clearly articulated answer anyone had given her.

"I don't have anyone waiting for me," she said in a quiet, matter-of-fact voice. She turned her gaze back to the ax, her fingers running softly along the head. She inhaled deeply, her chest shuddering, and tilted her head back to rest on the tree trunk.

"My dad died a year ago on a fishing trip. Drowned. He was the strongest swimmer I knew. He taught me to swim. A few months after the funeral, my mom gave birth to my brother, and then she died. They said it was from complications, but I think she didn't want to live without my dad anymore. My brother got sick and there was nothing anyone could do. I held him at night and he cried and cried and cried. He died, too."

Johanna was silent, watching Elleni. Her voice was level, almost impassive, but tears streamed down her cheeks, running into her hair and down her neck.

"And _then_," she said, a humorless bark of laughter in the word, "Althea Elphinstone called my name at the Reaping. And I thought, I'll do it for my family. And I'll do it for my District. I'll win the Games and I'll be a hero. But Johanna––" She turned her tear-stained face towards her captive, "I'll be so lonely. My District will love me, and I'll never want for money or food again, but I'll be completely alone."

She shook her head, gazing vacantly into the trees, "Johanna, you have a someone. Even if it's just one, you have them. They've been waiting for you and you've been fighting for them. That's important."

She fell silent, holding the ax nearly against her chest, her fingers tapping absently along the haft. Her gaze was unfocused as she stared into the trees for a long moment before turning to look again at Johanna. She seemed to be studying her face, trying to read the expressions there, as if revealing their meanings would bring clarity to a complicated problem. Johanna felt raw, exposed to her core. She was struggling not to tremble, not to let her sudden vulnerability show.

She had managed not to feel for the entirety of the Games, to push aside emotion and cognitive reaction for the sake of slaughtering her opponents and thereby achieving victory. And now this girl, who had her trapped and in pain, was evoking _sympathy_ from her. She felt for Elleni, and she hated it. Hated it because with this sympathy came a fear of what the girl was going to say next.

"I want you to send me home," the blonde girl said. Her words were simple enough, but her eyes were heavy with sadness.

"What... you want me to just kill myself and send you -"

"Not to District 4," Elleni cut her off. "_Home_." Johanna saw the look of determination and fear in her eyes and suddenly understood.

Elleni rose and approached Johanna, ax in hand. Johanna's gut tightened instinctively, her muscles bracing for attack. But Elleni knelt near her feet and in a few skillful movements had cut away a few large sections of rope. The rest of the net unraveled easily. Johanna pushed the heaps of rope off her, wincing at the bite of the thorns. Elleni stood, then held out her free hand to Johanna. After a moment of hesitation, Johanna took the offer, gripping the girl's forearm to pull herself to her feet. Elleni was surprisingly strong for her size; she didn't flinch or stumble as she lifted Johanna's near dead-weight from the ground.

Johanna limped a few steps, trying to keep her balance as her leg vehemently protested. Elleni held out the haft of the ax, her face calm. Johanna took the weapon without thinking. Her heart began to race. She knew how to kill when adrenaline was ripping through her veins and keeping her morality safely at bay. But this – deliberately murdering a person, a young, vulnerable human - she didn't know if she could do it. At the same time, something inside of her scoffed at her hesitation; mere minutes ago, she would have gladly hacked the girl's head from her shoulders to claim victory, and now the thought of ending her life curled her gut into knots.

She shifted her grip on the ax, swallowing hard.

"Come on." Elleni nodded, tears in her eyes. "Let's go home."

Johanna repositioned her stance. Her knees were shaking, her palms sweaty. She felt short of breath, racked by the violence of her internal struggle.

_Just kill her. Kill her and be done with it,_ a voice in her head screamed.

She bared her teeth, a frustrated snarl ripping from her throat. Still her arms remained limp, unresponsive to the roaring in her mind.

"Johanna," Elleni said. Her voice was soft, but there was a hint of warning. She must have thought of the Game Maker's potential retribution as well. "Do it. Now."

Johanna's teeth were clenched so tightly her head was starting to ache. She stared into the trees beyond Elleni, her throat painfully tight. Her breath came hard and fast through her nostrils. She commanded her arm to move, to throw the weapon the way she had in the forest back home so many times. But still nothing happened.

"For your someone," Elleni said abruptly. Johanna's eyes snapped back to the girl's face, startled. For a split second, the Tribute from District 4 wore an expression of immense sadness mixed with resolve. Then she lunged with a fierce cry. Johanna swung without hesitation, reacting on instinct. The diamond-edged blade slammed between Elleni's ribs. A sound of pain erupted between them, but it didn't come from Elleni's throat. Blood flowed like water.

Elleni's momentum carried her forward and their bodies collided. Johanna tried catching her weight, but her leg gave way. She stumbled back against a tree and slid to the ground, the girl's body like a hundred thousand bricks in her arms. She looked down at the Tribute from District 4, trying to ignore the black ax buried deep in her ribs.

Elleni's eyes were not yet blank as she looked back at Johanna, blood gurgling in her lungs. She choked, her body convulsing. Johanna couldn't be sure through her tears, but she thought she saw a smile ghost across the girl's lips. Then her eyes grew distant and a sigh escaped her throat and there was the sound of a cannon.

The hovercraft appeared minutes later to find the District 7 Victor clutching the dead fisherman's daughter tightly in her arms. She didn't look up as the claw came down, nor did she release the body when the voice from the craft's loudspeakers instructed her to do so. When the claw finally brought them both into the hovercraft, Johanna Mason refused to release the body of Elleni Herrick, snarling like a cornered wolf at the orderlies who tried to loosen her grasp. It took three darts to sedate her. She screamed like a wild beast, but as she began to fade from consciousness, she wept and held the blonde girl's body with every ounce of her weakening strength.

She whispered something in the dead girl's ear, but no one heard the words, and when Johanna woke she had forgotten what she had said to the girl whose death brought her victory in Panem's 70th Hunger Games.

* * *

**A/N: Thanks for reading! This is my first fan fiction and I'm so excited/nervous to be sharing it but I hope you enjoy it! A million, million thanks to androidilenya for being the most amazing beta reader ever. Please read, review and follow. I'm always open for critiques and I love getting feedback about my work. I'll be posting more chapters shortly!**


	2. Rowan

**A/N: Just to alleviate any initial confusion, this is NOT Johanna's POV. That will become clear enough soon, but just thought I'd throw it out there so no one is confused right off the bat. ****I wanted to approach Johanna's experiences from a different perspective than is typically done so I won't be having her voice be first person POV. I hope you like the new take on it!****  
**

* * *

It is a little after dawn. The sun hasn't risen far enough over the distant mountains to burn away the fog of my breath, but already the trees echo with the voices of loggers and the clatter of axes and saws. The pungent smell of sawdust, live wood exposed to open air, swirls across a cool breeze. A trail of goosebumps ripples down my spine. I inhale deeply through my nose, unable to help the smile that touches my lips as I help unload the wagon, passing axes into the waiting hands of my crew mates. Jessop hands out saws on the other side.

He glances over at me, bright-eyed as ever despite his nose being bitten pink by the cold. His wind-burned face, framed by a golden beard and blonde curls that stick out from beneath his stocking cap, always seems to hold a perpetual happiness, whether he's smiling or not. But he's usually smiling.

"You certainly look cheerful," he remarks with a grin. "You ready for today?"

I frown at him, exaggerating the expression. "Do you really have to bring that up on such a beautiful morning?"

He lifts his hands innocently, "I just wanted to make sure you hadn't forgotten about your grand training debut."

I roll my eyes, "As if I could forget." I deepen my voice to imitate the thunderous timbre of our foreman. "'_Happy 16th birthday, Rowan. You'll be training our newest batch of workers next week. I realize this is the greatest present anyone will ever give you, but there's really no need to thank me.'"_

Jessop laughs loudly at that, slapping at my arm. "Come on, it's not all that bad. Just a few clueless teenagers with murderous weapons in their hands, swinging them at trees and potentially people, all completely and totally your responsibility. What's the worst that could happen?"

I level a glare in his direction. "That's not funny, Jess. Did you forget what happened last year?"

The scene suddenly flashes behind my eyes. The boy's name was Darrin. He was in my trainee group. He was loud and boisterous and stupid, never paying any attention at all to our trainer at the time. He volunteered to demonstrate on the first day and made a joke out of trying to cut a small branch from the tree trunk. He wasn't watching his hands, instead making ridiculous faces at his group of friends, and the trainer didn't stop the swing of his axe in time. He was borne screaming on a bloody stretcher out of our training area, clutching at the mangled remnants of his left hand. He never came back to train; some thought he died, others said he was sent back to be a mill worker once his hand had healed into a stump. Whatever the case, the blood and the screams were enough to keep me wakeful and petrified for several nights afterward, and cautious and alert for what I swore would be the remainder of my life as a logger.

Jessop hefts the last saw, laying the flat side of the blade over his shoulder, and hops out of the wagon. Offering me a hand, he says. "You don't have to worry about that, Old Soul. You're too sharp for their nonsense. Everyone will listen to you, and if they don't, there's not a doubt in my mind that they'll be out on their ass before they can blink."

I nod, conceding; he has a point. I pick up the last ax in the wagon and accept his hand down. He closes the tailgate behind me and we fasten the chains to keep it closed.

"Listen, though, Rowan," he says seriously. "You have to act like an adult. You can't play around like you usually do." His serious facade splits after a record-breaking three seconds and he winks at me. I roll my eyes, suppressing a smile.

Even when I was a fourteen year old, I was more serious than any teenager ought to be. I was usually more likely to keep the workers in line than the foreman. For the first few months as a logger, my crew mates ribbed me about being a cranky old man trapped in teenage girl's body. Even after I learned that a logger's forest is built on gut instinct and camaraderie, they still referred to me affectionately as The Old Soul. No doubt that was the reason they had assigned me to oversee and instruct the newest batch of trainees. I wasn't one to neglect discipline when it was needed, as it very often was with a rowdy, excitable groups of young trainees.

"If I start acting out of turn, I'll need you to put me back in my place," I say.

He laughs. "You can count on me."

Lion sits at Jessop's feet, looking up at us with a lolling tongue. I crouch down and she bounds over, licking my face in greeting as I tousle her ears. I loop my arm around her neck, burying my face in her coarse, warm fur. She smells like pine and dirt and animal - a scent I've memorized, one that never fails to bring me an overwhelming feeling of safety.

I look up at Jessop, still resting my cheek on Lion's neck. "Don't you have some work you need to be doing?"

He looks aghast, "Work? I _am_ working. I mean look at me, pep talking the newest trainer so she trains these new trainees like new trainees have never been trained before. I am doing my part, Rowan. I am contributing to the greater good."

I shake my head, my smile stretching wide at his absurdity.

Jessop is the reason I'm alive. He was one of the few members of my crew who seemed to know that my somber demeanor was a product of something deeper than a bad attitude. He always joined me at my tree, even when I insisted I didn't need help, pretending that he didn't want to tackle a single tree all by himself. We would talk sometimes, and he'd tell me about his wife and his family - two little girls who had wrapped him firmly around their tiny fingers. Other times, when I couldn't bring myself to join in on the talking, he wouldn't bother me, instead just whistling to himself or carrying on a conversation with someone else at a nearby tree. His easy demeanor and understanding, combined with the way his mutt Lion loved me on sight, left me with no choice but to warm up to them both.

Jessop nods at something beyond me. "Uh-oh, the troops have arrived."

I turn to see a group of younger teens trudging through the trees, led by Foreman Raith. They've already been given axes, which makes my stomach clench. I try not to think of Darrin.

"Good luck, kiddo." Jessop helps me stand, giving me another wink. "You'll be grand. Come on, Lion, let's leave her be. She's got some hooligans to attend to."

I ruffle Lion's soft ears one more time before she bounds after him. Turning back to the approaching group, I adjust my grip on the sweat-smoothed handle of my ax and do a quick head count. Nine - three girls, six boys. I walk to meet them halfway, where a tree was felled yesterday specifically for this purpose. Raith is introducing me.

"...Rowan Carrigan, and she'll be your trainer. You take all instructions from her, understand?"

Only a few of the trainees nod, among them a girl with wide-set brown eyes. Her gaze is fixed on me. She looks remarkably cool in contrast with the rest of her peers, who are busy looking around at the trees, the other crewmen, the massive Clydesdales that stand in their traces. She doesn't even look away when I meet her gaze, instead lifting her chin in a somewhat brazen gesture. I swear I can see the ghost of a smile on her lips but Raith pats me on the shoulder with a heavy hand, interrupting my thoughts, before I can tell for sure.

He hands me a folded piece of paper. "They're all yours," he says in a low voice. I nod, and he leaves. Taking a deep breath, I unfold the paper, somewhat surprised that it doesn't tremble in my hand, and begin to read off the list.

"Brogan Mast?"

A tall skinny boy with a shock of blonde hair raises his hand. That name won't be too difficult to remember; the boy is the closest thing I've ever seen to the human personification of a mast.

"Arthur Aggins?"

I continue down the list, mentally noting distinct physical features of each person so I can recall the name later. I come to the last name on the paper: "Johanna Mason."

The girl with the wide-set eyes lifts her hand. "That's me," she says, her voice louder than necessary.

I nod, then fold the paper up and tuck it away in my breast pocket.

"Alright, listen up." I'm using a tone familiar to my crewmates, the one that doesn't allow for argument. "Like Foreman Raith said, my name is Rowan Carrigan. You will call me Carrigan. Everything I say to you is vitally important for your success as a logger. If you choose to fool around or ignore my instruction, you will pay dearly for it. When I was a trainee, I watched a boy cut half his hand off and nearly bleed to death. And that was just on day one." I pause for effect, watching their faces blanch as they picture the event.

I heft my ax in my left hand. "_These_ are not toys. They are made for killing trees, and they will certainly kill humans. Logging is dangerous work. If your own stupidity doesn't kill you, the forest just might. We work under a very specific set of rules, and if you want to make it to your fifteenth birthday you'll do whatever you can to follow them."

I pause. They're all listening now. The Mason girl looks like she's struggling to mask her excitement, her coolness all but evaporated at this point. She folds her arms across her chest as she catches my glance, smoothing her expression over with impassivity. "I am here to help. I will answer whatever questions you have that are relevant to your survival and success. Do you have any questions for me now?"

The group is silent.

"Alright then," I say, tossing my ax deftly into my right hand. "Let's begin."

* * *

The training goes smoothly enough. I demonstrate how to properly hold the ax while felling and limbing a tree, how to angle the cuts of the blade so the tree falls a certain way, how to swing in sync with another logger while double-teaming a tree so no one loses any limbs. After each demonstration and explanation, I allow each trainee to come up and practice for themselves while the others look on. The process is slow as we repeat an extended routine over the next several days, but this is how it must be done. The repetition is necessary for the trainees' muscles to memorize the feeling of proper ax work, to commit to subconscious knowledge the correct method of executing a typical day of logging.

Most of the trainees need the extra time and repetition to understand things properly, but a few of them pick up quickly on the training. Johanna Mason is one of these. She grows increasingly impatient as we repeat the ax swing exercise, the saw grip demonstration, the limbing method for the third, fourth, fifth time. When I verbally quiz them on terminology she answers loudly and immediately, intent on showing that she is already a material expert and is ready for something new. I stay patient with her; I remember being antsy to cut down some real trees just a few days into my training. But from where I stand now, I also know how important it was that I gained those extra days of knowledge before being allowed to work with my crew. She will have to learn that same lesson.

She seems to have other ideas.

On the fifth day of training, while I'm working with the Mast boy on correctly notching a tree so the saw's teeth have a firm purchase, I hear my name. "Carrigan?"

I glance up, already having recognized her voice. "Just a minute, Mason. Pay attention." I return my attention to the tree trunk, "Now you see here -" I run my fingers across the notch, "- at the deepest point it should be about an inch. You won't need it any deeper than -"

"Carrigan." Her voice is no longer requesting my attention but demanding it.

I look up slowly, meeting her eyes, "Yes, Mason?"

"We've already been over this three times. We get it. It's supposed to be no more than an inch deep so the saw doesn't get stuck, but not much shallower so it doesn't slip out when you start sawing."

Irritation sparks in my chest, but it's tempered by amusement. She seem to be eager to both impress and intimidate, and that's a quality I recognize. I was like that, and, if I'm honest with myself, I sometimes still can be. She knows how good she is because I've rarely had to correct her when it was her turn to demonstrate in front of the group. I'm sure she's more than capable of beginning as a logger at this point, but to cut her loose while holding the others back would be a poor move as a leader. I can't allow her to undermine me, not in front of the rest of the trainees.

I mask my thoughts with a hard expression, and respond coolly, "Yes, very good, Mason. Thank you for that information. With your permission, I'd like to continue training."

"All I'm saying is that some of us are more qualified to move ahead than others," she retorts, ignoring my sarcasm. "Why not let us start working with the crew, do some actual work if we're ready for it."

"That's not how it works, Mason," I reply levelly, surprising myself with my calmness.

"Well maybe that's how it should work."

I straighten slowly. The trainees are watching me. Their breathlessness is nearly palpable; I didn't know they were capable of such silence. They seem to be equal parts amazed at Mason's audacity and apprehensive about my pending reaction.

"Set the saw down, Mast," I instruct quietly. The boy obeys quickly, clearly trying to demonstrate that he does not share Mason's mutinous attitude. I take a few steps toward her, the other trainees parting to let me through. I keep her gaze, making sure my expression is impassive. I stop a few feet in front of her. She's tall for her age; we are perfectly eye-level with each other. Her wide-set brown eyes are defiant but bright, almost excited. If I didn't know better, I'd think that questioning authority in front of a captive audience gave her something of a rush.

I smile just slightly and she swallows, a spark of hesitancy flickering in her eyes. Jessop has told me many times that my cold smile is much more terrifying than any of my angry expressions.

"Fine," I say. I break her gaze, nodding at a tree several yards away. "Go cut that down."

She follows my gaze, and her face drops. The tree is a towering sequoia. It's fairly young as far as trees go, but it's still easily three feet in diameter.

She looks back at me. "By myself?"

I tilt my head, "By yourself."

She seems to be struggling internally about whether or not she should recant her words. Finally, she clenches her jaw and straightens her back, hefting her ax. Without a word, she turns and walks towards the tree. Both her hands are in fists at her side. I watch her go, then turn to the trainees gaping at me.

"Anyone want to join her?"

No one moves.

"Okay, then," I say. "Mast, Boren, show me how you use the notch to start a two-man saw."


	3. Apologies

I keep an eye on Johanna throughout the day. She starts on the tree in a fury, no doubt imagining my face to be wherever her ax lands. The result is what looks like a shallow, mangled bite someone took out of the side of the tree, with hardly any inward progress at all. As the morning sun slides into afternoon, her pace slows. Her chops become more deliberate, more evenly placed. She's going surprisingly strong for someone her age and size. The work is clearly taking its toll though; despite the coolness of the day, I can see a sheen of sweat on her forehead and arms where she's rolled up her shirtsleeves. The satisfaction of winning our little battle is wearing off and I'm starting to wonder if I was entirely too harsh in my retribution.

At lunchtime, I tell the Mast boy to bring her some food from the chow wagon. I sit with Jessop against a large stump. Lion sits at our feet, snapping up the bits of sandwich we toss to her.

Mason doesn't even bother making herself comfortable. As soon as Mast hands her the lunch sack, she drops her axe and practically collapses beside it, crisscrossing her legs and diving into the bag like it's the first food she's seen in months. Jessop watches as she devours her meal. It looks like she's barely taking time to breathe between bites.

"You don't think you're being too hard on her?" he asks.

I don't answer right away, my eyes on the girl. Her posture is deflated even as she tears into her sandwich. Every now and again she glances over at the other trainees, who are eating together in a group. I wonder if she thinks she's banned from speaking with the other trainees too, but then I realize that she never really socialized with them in the first place. Maybe it was because she immediately set herself apart from them in terms of skill, maybe her demeanor was too abrasive for their liking, or maybe she just didn't like people. Regardless, seeing her sitting alone, clearly excluded from the group, sends a pang of familiarity through my chest which is only compounded by the knowledge that I am partly to blame for her isolation.

I let out a sigh. "Maybe." The regret in my voice conveys something much closer to _definitely_, but Jessop doesn't comment on it.

"In my defense," I say, "this is exactly what she asked for. She wanted real work, well." I gesture broadly at the mangled sequoia behind Mason. "She got real work. Besides, she is more than free to come ask me to change my mind. I never said that was against the rules."

"Yeah, but she won't," Jessop says. "She's too much like you."

"And what's that supposed to mean?"

He chuckles, gently elbowing my ribs. "She's too damn prideful for her own good."

I laugh quietly at the truth of his words. I toss the last of my sandwich to Lion and stand, brushing crumbs from my hands, "Maybe so, but she's going to have to learn the same lessons I did."

"All the same," Jessop says, "Won't do any good to make enemies with her. She's your crew mate now, like it or not. I seem to remember one trainee who had a hard time getting along with everyone else when she first started."

I meet his eyes at the pointed remark. "That wasn't just an attitude problem, you know that."

He nods, lifting a hand. "I know, I know. And what if she's in the same boat as you were?"

I don't respond, looking over to where Mason is wrapping a handkerchief around her palms. Even from here, I can see that her hands are reddened. It probably won't be long before blisters start appearing. Generally, new loggers are given saws the first few weeks so their soft hands can grow a few callouses before experiencing the unique roughness of swinging an ax. Guilt clenches in my gut.

Jessop pats my leg, "All I'm saying is that crew is family, and we take care of each other. Don't forget that."

* * *

The day pushes on, the sun sliding towards the western horizon. I continue training the others, though I find myself glancing up to check on Johanna more often than before. Her breaks become more and more frequent, her muscles undoubtedly feeling like melted lead. She does her best not to let the weakness show, casually shaking her arms out and trying to look as un-wearied as possible when she sips her water. Sometimes she sees me watching her, and when she does she immediately hefts the ax and takes several hard swings into the trunk. Jessop is right - she's got a prideful streak in her. Only an hour or so after lunch, I notice that she winces on each swing when she doesn't think I'm looking. She re-wraps the handkerchief on her hands often, and I know the blisters have set in.

Guilt twists in my stomach. Even though this is exactly what she asked for, I shouldn't have given it to her. She didn't know the consequences of her request, but I did. And what Jessop said about her behavior being due to something deeper, the way mine was, keeps turning over in my mind.

I remember my first few months in the forest. Even now, a weight settles on my chest every time I think about it. Just months before my fourteenth birthday, there was an accident at the lumber mill. Both of my parents were inside at the time. The memories of flames climbing out the windows, turning the mill into a blazing funeral pyre on that cold January afternoon, still give me nightmares.

I lived at the orphanage in town for a few months until I was sent to the forest to work and could stay in the bunking cabins on camp. I didn't tell anyone my predicament. I didn't want to be pitied. Jessop was the only one who seemed to understand that I wasn't just a cranky teenager. He never pried, but his constant company was what kept me from 'accidentally' chopping open an artery.

Some nights he stayed in the male bunking cabin instead of returning to town, telling me that he just didn't want to take the bumpy truck ride home that night. But each time he stayed, I would be woken from my nightmares by Lion's warm tongue on my face, her quiet whimpers and wagging tail easing my terror. I knew that Jessop was the one letting her into the female cabin. Maybe he had heard rumors that I woke half the camp with my screams at night. Or maybe he could just tell by my haggard appearance in the mornings that something was wrong. Either way, I know that I owe my life to the warmth and companionship of the cheerful logger and his dog.

It's more than possible that Johanna suffered the same losses that I did. If that's the case, then the way I've treated her so far is borderline unforgivable. And even if she had just been obstinate for obstinance's sake, she really didn't deserve the punishment I gave her. Still, I find myself fighting my pride. I don't want to halt training and have all eyes on me when I apologize to her and welcome her back into the group. I check the sun. There's probably no more than an hour left of the training day. I decide to make my amends when the other trainees have been dismissed.

When the sun kisses the horizon, I'm watching the two remaining girls properly notch the trunk to prepare for splitting. When they've finished, I nod.

"Good, good job. Alright guys, we're done for the day. Take the axes and saws back to the equipment wagon. Ary, Lance, you two are on stable duty tonight. Make sure the horses get a good rub-down before you go to dinner."

They comply, gathering up the tools and moving towards the wagons where the rest of the crew is loading up the last of the day's lumber. I turn to where Johanna stands. She's watching the rest of the trainees as they leave, still gripping her ax with two hands, her eyes wistful. She starts as she sees me turn, quickly looking back to the tree and swinging the ax into it. I can see how much strength she's lost.

I walk towards her. She glances over her shoulder, then quickly returns her attention to the tree when she sees me coming.  
"That's enough, Mason," I say when I'm a few yards away. "We're done for the day."

She doesn't look at me, still trying her damnedest to put a devil-may-care attitude into her swing. "Oh, I'm fine," she says. "I can go for a while longer."

I roll my eyes at her stubbornness. As she back-swings, I step in and catch the handle of her ax just below the head. Her momentum yanks her hands from the ax as she attempts to follow through on the swing. She stumbles, startled that her hands are suddenly empty, then turns sharply toward me. "Give that back."

"I wanted to apologize," I blurt out, surprising myself with the words.

She stops short, bewildered, a second angry demand dying in her throat.

I force myself to continue. "It wasn't fair of me to put you here."

She shrugs one shoulder, "I mean, I asked for it -"

"You did," I agree, cutting her off. "But I should've known better. I should've realized what it would do to you."

She huffs, crossing her arms so her hands are hidden, "I am _fine_, I don't know what you're talking about."

"Let me see your hands."

She takes a half step back, her posture defensive. I take a deep breath.

"Please."

She hesitates another moment, but finally unfolds her arms, showing me her palms. I try to hide a wince. The strips of cloth that have wrapped her hands all day are stained a light brown. I take one of her hands in mine and unwrap the discolored handkerchief. The last layer sticks to her skin, and she catches her breath, clearly trying not to yelp in pain. I wet the cloth with water from my canteen and it comes away. My heart sinks.

There are four main blisters: three on the soft pads at the top of her palm, and one directly in the center of her palm. That one, the largest of the four, has already broken. The skin beneath is an inflamed red. The other blisters are round and shiny, filled nearly to bursting with clear fluid.

When I unwrap the other hand, the story is much the same. Blisters are fairly common among loggers, but they're usually small and easily handled. These are the worst I've ever seen, and it's my fault. I meet Johanna's eyes.

"I'm sorry," I say quietly, hoping the sincere guilt I feel is carried in my voice.

She tries shrugging again, but the pain on her face doesn't do much to contribute to the nonchalant gesture.

I open my mouth to speak when someone calls my name. Jessop is striding towards us, a parcel under his arm, Lion trotting at his heels. He looks like he's about to say something else but then he catches sight of Johanna's hands. He lets out a low whistle.

"I know," I say. "We were about to go to the Med cabin."

"No need." He pulls the parcel from under his arm, handing it to me. "I had a feeling you might need this."

The parcel is a medical kit, the ones they distribute among the crew at the beginning of each day. I open it and take the supplies I need.

"Here, have a seat," I tell Johanna, gesturing to a nearby stump. She sits gingerly; her muscles are no doubt beginning to feel the effects of a full day of ax-swinging. I crouch in front of her, holding out my hands for her to give me her palm. She looks apprehensive, glancing up at Jessop before she sets her face in a hard expression and extends her hand.

"This is gonna hurt," I say. She nods tightly, her lips pressed in a thin line.

I begin draining the blisters as gently as I can. Johanna tries to mask her pain, bouncing her foot and looking up at the trees, her jaw spasming as she clenches her teeth. Lion seems to sense her distress and sits by the stump, resting her head on Johanna's leg and whimpering softly. Jessop does what he does best and starts talking. He asks Johanna a few questions, but after realizing that she can't give more than a few monosyllabic grunts in reply, he starts telling his stories.

I smile as I work; I've heard these before, the ones about meeting his wife, Mary, in the lumberyard where she worked as a foreman in training, about the birth of his daughters, about his first days as a young logger. These are the things he would talk about back when my life was in need of saving. These are the stories that pulled me slowly but surely back from the edge of my cliff. Despite all the times he's told them, hearing them now still soothes me. Even Johanna manages to smile every now and again.

I finish the final gauze wrapping and pin it with a bandage clip as he's finishing a story of the time he made a fool of himself in front of Mary. While hiding to surprise her at work, he spooked a couple of cart horses and they bolted across the lumberyard, strewing logs everywhere. Johanna and I are both chuckling at the mental image of a young, frazzled Jessop chasing after the cart as it careened out of control. Jessop himself is the most amused of the three of us, his face red from laughing. His hearty guffaws trail off into weak chuckles as he wipes his eyes, shaking his head.

"Mary says those Clydesdales have never been the same since."

I pack the last of the cotton balls inside the med kit and tie it firmly shut, glancing at Johanna.

"You hungry, Mason?"

"Starving," she responds, standing as quickly as her sore muscles will allow.

Most of the trainees are long gone, but the pair on Clydesdale duty are still standing with the horses. Foreman Raith is just closing the wagon gate, the final logs snugly stacked in place. I whistle sharply through my teeth and Ary, a brown-haired boy, looks over. I hold up my hand, signaling them to wait for a moment.

"Go with Ary and Lance," I tell Johanna. She nods, heading off in the direction of the wagon.

"And Johanna," I call after her. She pauses, glancing over her shoulder at me.

"Go easy on the hands."


	4. Bruised

Johanna has to be on horse duty for another week and a half before her hands are healed enough for her to continue training. Throughout her healing period, I can tell that waiting to get her hands on an ax again is killing her. She seems ill-tempered a good deal of the time, except when Jessop and Lion join her to keep her company. I notice when he approaches her at various times on any given day, making friendly conversation the way he's done with me countless times before. I sit with them during lunch, sometimes joining in on the talking, sometimes just sitting back and listening to them banter.

Jessop's good nature paired with Johanna's more caustic personality makes for some interesting conversation. Once again, I'm reminded of how glad I am for Jessop's optimistic energy; maybe it'll help make up for the injustice that I inflicted on her.

On the first day of the third week of training, I arrive at the felled tree an hour before sunrise to prepare and find Johanna already sitting cross-legged by the trunk. I stop a few paces short, cocking my eyebrows in confusion.

"How long have you been here?"

She shrugs, eyes wide and innocent, as though sitting in the woods before dawn is a completely normal thing to do. "A while."

I lift my eyebrows in bemusement, but decide not to comment on her odd behavior. "How are the hands?"

"Good as new," she says, lifting her palms to show me the calloused skin. "Doc said I'm cleared to start training again."

"That's good to hear," I say, and mean it. I look over my shoulder as I hear the crunch of horse hooves and wagon wheels: the tool wagon has arrived. "Well," I tell Johanna, "I have to get ready for training-"

"I actually wanted to ask you something," she says suddenly, standing up. "The doctor, he said I'd probably have to re-start training since I missed so much. But I think-" She hesitates, seeming to debate the wisdom of her words, before plowing ahead. "I think I'm good enough. I've been watching you train since I got hurt, and I can show you everything you've taught the rest of them. I can prove it to you, if you just want to give me some drills I could show you everything I know so I don't have to go through another four weeks -"

"Woah, woah," I interrupt, holding up both hands. "Slow down, there, hot-shot."

She snaps her mouth closed, lips flattening into a tight line. Her brown eyes are glazed with muted apprehension.

I consider her offer for a moment, taking a little longer than necessary to respond. "Well... you can't exactly show me what you've got without the necessary tools, can you?"

Almost before I've finished my sentence, she's already bolting past me towards the tool wagon. She retrieves an ax and a saw hurriedly, but instead of sprinting back again she walks at a steady and deliberate pace, making an exaggerated show of holding the tools carefully by her side.

"Rule number one," she calls to me, her tone proper as though she's reading from a textbook, "is to never run when you're holding your tools."

A surprised chuckle escapes me before I have time to suppress it, and I see the corner of her mouth twitch up. I roll my eyes, hiding a smile, and tell her to notch the trunk properly for splitting. We run through drills for the better part of the hour, and she doesn't falter on a single one of the tasks I give her. By the end of it, I can tell she's tired, but satisfied. And so am I.

"As far as I'm concerned, you're good to go," I tell her. "I'll run it past Foreman Raith, but he trusts me. He'll let you stay with our group."

Johanna bobs her head wordlessly, eyes bright in poorly concealed excitement.

I have her help me get the rest of the axes from the wagon as the other trainees begin to arrive. I hand out the tools and start the day's instruction. I haven't been teaching for more than an hour when I'm interrupted by a raised hand.

"Carrigan?" The speaker is a brown-haired boy named Torrin Brack. A brawny boy with close-set eyes, Brack has proven himself to be the worst kind of braggart - the kind who shows off when he actually has no idea what he's doing. More than once, I've almost thrown him out of training for interrupting the lesson to demonstrate his immense lack of know-how.

"Yes, Brack?"

"Why is Mason training with us again?" His words are just short of a petulant whine as he gestures at Johanna. "She's been out for two weeks and it's not fair that she can just join in again. She missed too much, she's supposed to be held back."

My nerves bristle at his complaints. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Johanna stiffen.

"Mason and I have already had this discussion. She's proven that she's qualified to continue training with us."

I turn back to demonstrate the ax technique I had described before being interrupted when Brack's voice comes again from behind me.

"This is bullshit. I bet you're showing her special treatment just because her parents killed themselves -"

I whip around, shocked and angry at the crass words, but there's the sound of flesh on flesh and all I see is Brack on the ground and Johanna straddling his chest. Her fists are raining down on his face, his throat, shoulders, anywhere she can reach. I leap forward, locking my arms under her armpits and dragging her off him before I have a murder on my hands. She's red-faced and breathing hard, a loud stream of violent curses pouring from her lips. Her hands are still balled tight, ready to do more damage. Brack is curled up on the ground, groaning, blood leaking from his nose and split lip.

Johanna jerks in my arms, still raging. I debate whether or not I should release her and let Brack receive the full force of justice for his terrible words, but grudgingly decide against it.

"Jessop!" I yell over my shoulder. He's already running over with a few other crew members, having heard the sound of the scuffle. They clear a space around Brack, sitting him up and asking for his name to ensure there isn't any brain damage.

"Let me go," Johanna snarls at me.

"You can't kill him-"

"I won't! Just let me go."

I release her, taking a step back.

"What happened here?" Foreman Raith asks, looking at Johanna.

She's trembling, fury still evident in her eyes. Her jaw spasms, but she doesn't reply.

"Mason -" Raith takes a step closer. Giant though he is, I've never seen him raise a hand to anyone, even in situations far worse than this. Johanna doesn't seem to have the same confidence. She flinches away from him before breaking into a full-on sprint in the opposite direction. Based on her speed, she doesn't intend to come back any time soon. I mumble a curse under my breath.

"I'll go get her," I tell Raith. "Jess?"

"I've got this, Old Soul. I'll keep training them, just go make sure she doesn't get herself killed."

I nod my thanks, about to take off after the runaway trainee. Jessop's hand on my shoulder stops me.

"Take this," he says, and hands me the hatchet he keeps on his person at all times. "Just in case."

"Thanks, Jessop," I say, and start running in the direction where Johanna Mason disappeared into the trees.

It doesn't take long to find her. Her path is marked by muddy footprints and trails of clearly disturbed leaves. After a few minutes of running, I slow down, glancing around and listening for her as best I can over the sound of my own breathing. I hear something up ahead that sounds like a sob.

"Johanna?"

Silence. I round a stand of elms to find her sitting against one of the trunks, facing away from me.

"Hey."

She doesn't look at me, passing a hand quickly across her face. "Hey."

"You okay?"

"I'm great," she says shortly. Her voice is thick.

I shift the hatchet from one hand to the other, trying to think of something to say. The silence stretches before I finally settle on, "I never liked Brack, you know."

She doesn't answer, but her head turns slightly.

"He's a fucking moron. I can't tell you the amount of times I've wanted to just hit him right in the mouth. So, thanks, for doing that for me."

I'm not positive, but I think I hear the barest hint of a laugh escape Johanna. That's encouraging. I wonder for a moment if I should mention what Brack actually said, maybe to offer an apology on his behalf, but decide against it. I don't know how much truth there was in his words, and I don't want to upset Johanna further. An idea occurs to me as I roll the hatchet in my hands, and I step closer to where she sits.

"Actually, I usually practice throwing to keep myself from beating the hell out of obnoxious trainees. Just as an anger management exercise."

She looks up at me. Her cheeks are dry but her eyes are red.

"Practice throwing what?" Her voice is still a little husky.

"This," I say, raising the hatchet. Taking a quick aim at a tree several yards off, I let fly with the weapon. The blade sticks point first in the trunk. Johanna tries faking disinterest even as she stands up, but her eyes wider than usual and fixed on the hatchet.

"That's pretty good."

"Pretty good?" I repeat, pretending to be hurt. "I am an _excellent_ marksman. Better than most loggers I know."

"All you did was hit the tree," Johanna points out. "_I_ could hit the tree."

Now my frown is genuine. Without a word, I cross to the tree, yank the hatchet from the trunk, then chop an X into the bark. Johanna isn't smiling when I walk back to stand beside her, but her expression is definitely amused. I don't bother explaining anything before cocking my arm back and hurling the weapon with as much force as I can muster. The blade sticks directly on the center of the X. I look pointedly at Johanna, but all she does is raise one eyebrow.

"Teach me."

She wasn't wrong about at least being able to hit the tree. She manages that. But it takes a good ten or so tries before she even gets close to the X. By then, she's completely wrapped up in concentration. Her eyes are laser focused on her target, and she only acknowledges my instruction with minuscule nods. Her throws are surprisingly powerful; it takes more than my usual effort to un-stick the hatchet from the tree after she throws it.

After teaching her for a while, I start to demonstrate my more complicated tricks. For one of them, I stand facing away from the tree, and when Johanna gives the signal I whip around and throw. I manage to hit the center of the X three times out of three.

"Damn," Johanna says after my third hit. "You'd be just fine in the Games."

I shrug, yanking the hatchet from the bark. "Something tells me sinking a blade into a tree is a hell of a lot different than sinking one into a person's face."

We start heading back after close to an hour of throwing and practicing tricks.

"So," Johanna says slowly. I glance at her out of the corner of my eye. She looks nervous. "Am I gonna get kicked out?"

"Definitely not," I snort. "Brack was way out of line, he deserved everything he got. If it's up to me, he won't be training with us again. No one talks to my trainees like that and gets away with it."

Johanna just nods, turning her face away from me, but I catch glimpse of a small smile before she manages to hide it.


	5. Beginning

Graduation day arrives a week later, and along with it comes a feeling of elation. Yesterday was the Reaping, and no one from our sector had their name drawn from the glass bowls. Everyone walks as though a weight has been lifted from their shoulders; there will be no friends or family weeping in their houses tonight.

The air is filled with the scent of wood dust and sweat. The high sun sends shafts of lights piercing through the trees, illuminating the swirling dust motes that hang in the air. The pine needles are packed thin beneath my feet as I walk among the trainees. They're working in pairs today, each set of them sawing away at their own tree. Laughter and playful banter echoes as the different teams call challenges to each other. Today is something of a competition day - whichever pair of trainees gets farthest through their tree gets bragging rights over the others. Not much of a prize, but my little pack is working in high-spirits, attacking their trees with gusto.

I find myself by Johanna's tree, watching as she and her partner, Aggins, make steady headway on their tree. Her jaw is set in a determined expression, one I'm very familiar with by now. Despite the fact that Aggins is one of the biggest boys of the group, Johanna seems to be the one setting the pace for them. Her movements are quick and powerful, her hands firm on the saw's handle. There's a fine sheen of sweat on her forehead and her breathing is quick, but there's the faint curve of a smile on her parted lips. She's making no effort to hide how much she's enjoying this.

"Don't get too carried away, guys," I say, loud enough for everyone to hear. "I don't want anyone pulling a Mason today."

They laugh at that, looking over at Johanna for a reaction. She doesn't stop sawing for a single moment, but she glances up at me, tossing her braid over her shoulder. I wink at her and she narrows her eyes at me, trying to hide her smile.

"It's better than pulling a Brack," she returns.

The blatant dig earns loud hoots from the other trainees. I try not to smile, glancing over my shoulder at the offender in question. Brack is well out of earshot, looking sullen as he stands with the Clydesdales. His face is still badly bruised, both eyes blackened and a bandage taping up his broken nose. I don't feel a hint of pity for him, anger curling in my gut all over again as I think of his cruel words thrown at Johanna in childish spite. He stayed in the med bay for two days after the beating, his eyes completely swollen shut. I paid him a short visit to inform him that he would no longer be training with my group. He should consider himself lucky that I didn't have him expelled from training completely and sent back to work permanently in a lumber mill.

In a way, though, I'm glad that the whole incident happened. Ever since then, Johanna and I have practiced throwing every day after training. She's gotten steadily better, hitting the center of the X more and more often.

Not only that, but I also notice a change in her as soon as we trade axes and saws for the throwing hatchet and go deeper into the trees where we won't be disturbed by others. Her body language adapts a boldness that goes beyond the belligerent attitude she had in the first week of training. She moves with strength, her energy both wild and focused, like a beast of prey. The exhilaration practically oozes off of her when she has the weapon in her hands. Her toned muscles are taut as she takes aim, and when her arm whips forward to throw, her whole body follows the motion. The movement is smooth as water and powerful as a falling tree. I've never seen anyone take to throwing so naturally.

Even with the other trainees she's lost the acerbic edge that I had been accustomed to seeing, and her temper has subsided significantly. She's actually started making jokes outside of the brusque remarks that that are usually her only contribution to conversations.

By the end of the day, most of my crew have gathered around the trainees to watch them work. They call encouragements to them, driving them to throw what's left of their depleted strength into the task. I notice that Johanna and Aggins are only several inches away from felling their tree. Despite the long day of work, their rhythm is steady and quick, their saw flashing through the trunk with surprising speed.

Not minutes later, I hear a familiar crack as the thin wedge of wood holding the trunk together begins to give way. Everyone clears out from the falling path as Aggins and Johanna straighten, pulling the saw from the gap. All eyes are on the tree as it slowly begins its descent, the thunderous sound of snapping branches and tearing leaves building in volume as the mammoth falls. Not one to miss an opportunity for dramatic flair, Johanna throws her head back and howls over the clamor of the tree: "Look out, she's coming down!"

The beast hits the ground and the earth shakes, leaves and bits of wood pattering across the ground. The crew cheers, clapping and shaking hands with the victorious pair. Johanna is smiling like I've never seen her smile before, still breathing hard from the vigorous sawing. Jessop throws an arm around her shoulder, giving her a jovial shake.

"She's working with me from now on," he says. "Rowan, you're on your own."

Boisterous laughter and teasing calls come from the rest of the crew, accusing him of being unfair for trying to claim the best trainee for himself. Johanna's cheeks go red and she doesn't seem to know where to look, clearly unsure of how to handle all this positive attention, but the smile never leaves her face.

We all dine together that night. The summer sun still hangs above the horizon, shedding a warm light on everyone present. Johanna sits at my side, Jessop across from us. Lion lies at my feet, her tail brushing along the ground happily. The conversation is easy and light; stories are exchanged, laughter cushioning the balmy evening air. I can't recall feeling so at ease since before my parent's death. Jessop gave me a safe haven, but something about the girl whose proximity warms me as we sit side-by-side makes everything feel like home.

* * *

Once dinner is over, our newest crew members are sent to their cabins to get their belongings so they can finally return to their homes. During the training period, all trainees are required to stay in the designated cabins on camp in order to accommodate the early mornings as well as establish an atmosphere devoid of familial distractions. Now that they have officially graduated, they are allowed to return to their homes and be shuttled to the forest every morning in open-bed trucks. Another batch of trainees will be arriving within the week, so the cabins have to be vacated to make room. I'm grateful that the job of trainer cycles through the crew; I loved my trainees, but I feel very strongly that I will love them more once I am no longer responsible for their idiocy.

I help them load their bags onto the trucks. A few of them give me high fives. One of the girls gives me a hug - a parting gesture I consider a little over the top considering she'll see me again tomorrow, but I understand her excitement over graduating and decide against quelling her good mood. I wave as the trucks pull away before realizing I only helped seven people into the truck bed. Johanna wasn't there.

I turn, my eyes scanning the cabin area, and spot her, a single bag slung over her shoulder as she makes her way to the permanent living cabins. My heart sinks and I berate myself for forgetting that if there were any truth in what Brack said a week ago, Johanna doesn't have a home to return to. I'd be more than happy to have her live in my cabin. We're already on the same crew. The fact that her company is immensely enjoyable is just an added bonus.

I jog across to her. "Johanna!"

She turns. Her face is carefully composed, not betraying any hint of what might be going through her mind.

"Hey."

"Hey."

She looks at me expectantly. I absently rub my nose, suddenly aware of the nerves rolling in my stomach. I don't know where they came from or why they decided now would be the best time to manifest themselves. I've been spending plenty of time with Johanna and we've become good friends. This should be a simple run-of-the-mill offer, but my fluttering stomach doesn't seem to understand that. Maybe it's the way her wide-set eyes are bright and piercing as she looks at me, even in the dim light. Maybe it's the way her striking facial structure is gently shadowed and highlighted, or the way her long, loose hair falls across her shoulders. I give myself a quick mental shake.

_Snap out of it, Rowan. Concentrate._ My mind races, grasping for something remotely coherent to say.

"You - uh, staying up here?"

Flawless.

"Sure am," she responds, shifting the bag on her shoulder. She turns to gesture at the cabins. "Figured I'd find an empty one somewhere so I wouldn't bother anybody."

"Oh, did you - did you want to be alone?" I falter, suddenly realizing that maybe she doesn't share my enthusiasm about living in the same cabin. "I mean, that's fine. Yeah, it's nice having a cabin to yourself. Peaceful. And nice." She tilts her head slightly, a small smile pulling at the corner of her mouth, her eyebrows lifting in amused confusion and my heart decides to take up residence somewhere around my knees. My words feel slow on my tongue but they tumble out much too quickly.

"So, I guess you wouldn't want to room with anyone? I was just thinking that I... could find you someone up here who needs a roommate. If you're looking for that. I don't have anyone sleeping with me, if you wanted to? Well not... not _sleep_ with me but we could just-" I clear my throat, wincing and deeply regretting my decision to begin speaking in the first place. "...slumber? In the same cabin? Unless you wanted to be alone which is fine too."

Johanna looks like she doesn't know whether to laugh or bury her smile, her expression almost sympathetic at my ridiculous rambling. My cheeks are burning. I'm not even entirely sure what just came out of my mouth.

"Yeah," she says finally, the word just barely masking a laugh. "Sure, I'll sleep with you."

I feel my heart clench as I realize that the not-so-subtly suggestive comment is a repetition of what I just said.

"I - I didn't -"

"Oh, I'm sorry, I meant _slumber_," she says, closing one eye for emphasis. "Just two girls slumbering in the same cabin, right?"

"Yes," I say fervently, grateful for the clarification that I seem incapable of at the moment.

"Okay then, brainless. Lead the way."

* * *

Johanna seems to forgive me my nervous babbling episode rather quickly. I don't hear about it until some days after dinner, when I'm the only one within earshot and she digs her elbow playfully into my ribs.

"Come on, roomie. Let's go _slumber_."

It wouldn't be so bad if I didn't always blush so furiously and find myself unable to come up with a reply witty enough to redeem myself.

But aside from the gentle teasing, I find myself immensely enjoying Johanna's company both during and after working hours. It's a welcome change to have company once my crew leaves for home. Several weeks pass without incident, and, with the comforting sound of Johanna's breathing across the room once the sun sets, I find myself feeling more safe than I have in years.

Which is why I'm surprised when I find myself in the middle of a nightmare again.


	6. Nightmare

_I am at the lumber mill. My parents and I are outside, picnicking in the snow for lunch. I kiss them goodbye and wave as they disappear into the building to go back to work. Then there are flames licking up the siding, shattering the windows, sending black smoke into the air. I'm in a panic, throwing water onto the blaze, screaming for help, but I'm the only one around. People, burning bodies, start falling around me, their voices screeching in my ears. I try running, terrified, when hands grab my arms._

_I turn to find myself face-to-face my parents. They're both on fire, their melted faces howling into mine, begging me for help. I try telling them I can't help them, but they drag me into the burning building. The smoke clogs my lungs and my arms start to burn where my parents are holding me._

I bolt upright in bed, screaming, shaking, my forehead drenched in sweat. It takes a moment for me to realize where I am, for the walls of the dark cabin to materialize. The smell of burning wood and flesh lingers in my nostrils.

Johanna is sitting up, poised as though ready to spring out of her bed at any moment. Her eyes are locked on me, wide with both fear and concern. I wipe my forehead, but it doesn't help much because my palm is just as clammy. I'm trembling. I want to bury myself in my blankets, but I'm afraid of the burning faces finding me in the darkness.

There's a scratching at the door, startling Johanna so badly she almost falls onto the floor. I open the door and Lion jumps on me, licking at my face and whining softly.

"Hey, girl, hey. It's alright, I'm okay."

I let her hug my arms and I tousle her ears, burying my face into the fur of her neck for a moment. Climbing back into bed, I prop my back up against the wall, and Lion takes her usual place beside me, resting her head on my thigh. My heart slows a little as I run my hand across her soft coat, finding soothing familiarity in the feeling. A deep, shuddering breath racks my chest involuntarily, and I close my eyes, fighting the tears that threaten to spill.

"Are...you okay?" Johanna finally asks. Her voice is uncharacteristically soft.

I don't open my eyes, but attempt to put on the brave smile that I had had to perfect after a month in the orphanage. Even as I nod to confirm that I'm alright, I feel the feeble expression crumple and tears spill down my cheeks. I cover my face with one hand.

It's been so long, nearly two months, since the last nightmare. I had begun to think that maybe they were gone for good, that maybe I wasn't as damaged as I had feared. But now here I am, back at square one, shaking and sobbing like a frightened child. I had almost forgotten the raw terror of the dreams, the way they branded themselves behind my eyes, making me feel afraid to ever go to sleep again. Time hasn't made them any less vivid, either. I can still feel the smoke burning in my lungs, the sharp pain where my parents' hands had gripped my arms. No matter how my nightmares present themselves, one thing is always consistent - except for the burning bodies and wraiths of dying people, I am always alone.

I feel a hand on my knee and look up in surprise, smearing my tears with the heel of my hand. Johanna is sitting somewhat awkwardly on the edge of my bed, her body at an uncomfortable angle in relation to her hand on my knee. She's staring at the mattress, her eyes shifting as if she's thinking of what to do or say next.

"I'm sorry," I say. My voice quavers with tears and I clear my throat. "Sorry that you have to see this."

Johanna looks up at me quickly, "No, no, it's okay! I'm not...upset at you for this or anything. I'm just..." She hesitates, looking at her hand as though checking to see if it's still in place. "I don't know what to do to help."

I sniff, turning my palm up in a kind of shrug. "Not much you can do, really."

She bobs her head in a nod, not meeting my eyes. I feel her hand twitch on my leg.

"Was it..." She hesitates, glancing up at me. "Was it about your parents?"

I nod quickly, looking down at Lion, playing with her thick fur to distract myself.

"I'm sorry," Johanna says. "I know it probably doesn't mean anything, but I am sorry."

I feel emotion making my chest tight and I suddenly hear myself talking, the words spilling out as if the pressure was too much.

"It was a fire. At the lumber mill. One of the workers made a mistake, they left the wood polish vat unattended. It got too hot and exploded. So a whole half of the building was already destroyed by the time Peacekeepers got there. And the other half was just burning."

My fingers curl into a fist on my lap.

"I was supposed to be there, you know. We forgot our food at home so my mom sent me back to get it because my dad was coming to visit from the forest that day. He was coming to have lunch with us. They were both inside when I came back. I could smell the smoke before I could see it and I ran..."

I have to swallow the lump in my throat. My vision blurs with tears. I can't even tell the difference between my hand and Lion's fur.

"I ran and the whole thing was on fire. I could hear people inside screaming, but no one was doing anything. The Peacekeepers were standing there and holding back anyone who was trying to help. They were saying it was too late, the fire was just too big. I tried fighting them and I wished I had my dad's axe so I could chop them all down and get inside. I think they knocked me out and I woke up in the snow and by then the whole building was just black and smoking. I sat there for a long time. I think I hoped I would freeze to death. But then someone came and carried me into town and dropped me off at the orphanage."

I don't even bother wiping my cheeks. This is the first time I've told anyone the whole story. Jessop knows pieces but he never asked questions once I made it clear I was done talking about the subject. I don't know why, but I suddenly feel a little less heavy. My chest is still tight with lingering panic and I don't think I'll be sleeping tonight, but something about finally telling the whole thing out loud makes something feel different. Maybe just a tiny bit better.

I take a deep breath and glance up at Johanna. She looks like she's searching me, the gaze of her wide-set brown eyes flickering across my face. I don't see the pity that so many people in the orphanage subjected me to. There's just a strange sort of concern, curiosity even, as though she's seeing something again after not seeing it for a very long time.

"Sorry," I mumble quickly, turning away. "That came out of nowhere."

"It's okay," she says, and something in her voice makes me actually believe that it is.

Her hand lifts from my knee as she reaches to scratch Lion's ears. I wait for her to say something about how awful it must have been for me to experience that first hand, or something that in so many words would more or less express the sentiment of "you poor thing."

Nothing of the sort escapes her lips. She stands, and for a moment I'm afraid she's going to crawl back under her blankets and go to sleep, leaving me alone in the dark. But she just climbs into a more comfortable position on the other side of Lion, leaning against my headboard.

There is a long silence, broken only by the sound of Lion's occasional snuffles against my leg. My mind is remarkably clear as I comb patterns into her fur with my fingers.

"Are you okay?" Johanna finally asks.

I look up at her, not answering right away. I can tell by the expression on her face that the question is genuine. Finally, I give a slight shake of my head.

"Not really."

She nods, dropping her gaze to Lion again.

"My parents are dead, too," she says. "Turns out Brack isn't wrong about everything." The attempt at humor is feeble at best, and so is the smile that barely manages to curl the corner of her mouth. "But they didn't kill themselves," she clarifies. "Not exactly."

She falls quiet again. I watch her, the way her down-turned eyelashes flutter as she slides her fingers along Lion's front paws. She glances up at me.

"You don't have to tell me," I say quietly. "It's alright."

"I want to," she replies, her eyebrows slanting slightly, almost as though she's confused by her own words. I nod, allowing her a moment to collect her thoughts. Her eyes are locked with mine; she seems to be trying to make up her mind. Finally, she takes a deep breath through her nose, dropping her gaze. She starts speaking slowly, deliberation clear in her voice.

"My mom died giving birth to me. The doctor said it was the most painful labor he had ever seen. It took me three days to come out. It was like I knew...I knew that I didn't have much time left with her so I wanted to make it last as long as I could."

Johanna's voice is perfectly steady, but a single tear has traced a path down her cheek.

"My dad didn't take it well. It took him a week to actually accept that he had a newborn to take care of, but even then he was more interested in finding the bottoms of whiskey bottles. If the neighbors hadn't brought milk to make sure I was fed I don't know if I would have made it."

She scratches her ear in the absent way she has; I've seen her do it before when she's nervous or upset.

"It was just me and dad for years. Once I could eat solid foods, I guess the neighbors decided Jeremiah Mason's alcohol problem took more effort than it was worth and they just gave up."

I could see Johanna's jaw tighten. She had stopped petting Lion, her hands resting stiffly on the blankets.

"If it was my guess, I'd say he hated me. Hated me for killing his wife. Can't say I blame him. After one too many meetings with his belt, I started wishing that I had been the one who died too." There's a pause, and she seems to be lost for a moment, her eyes distant.

"The alcohol killed him. I was...seven. I think. I came home from school one day and there were people in my house. No one would tell me what happened, they were all so busy discussing where I was going to live. They ended up sending me to the mill as an errand girl and then a worker when I came of age. I lived in the bunk house at the mill until-" She sits back, gesturing at the dark woods outside the window. "-until I came here."

She pauses for a long moment, staring out the window.

"Until I met you." Her voice is so low, so quiet, I only barely catch the words. I can't tell if I was meant to hear them or not, so I don't comment on them, but I feel their weight, their meaning, and tuck them away in my memory.

Johanna leans forward again, dipping down to place a soft kiss on Lion's head. She tousles up the fur on her ribs, then starts smoothing her coat down the trail of her spine. Without thinking I place my palm over the back of one of her hands, holding it gently. She freezes for a moment without looking up at me, staring at our hands.

Hers is warm and surprisingly soft. She has long fingers for her age, longer than mine, and they taper gracefully towards the ends. They don't look like hands well suited for the roughness of forest work, even though I've seen them countless times wielding an axe with more skill than most loggers I've met.

I realize she still hasn't moved and I'm just about to pull my hand away and apologize when her fingers close over mine. I glance at her and she looks calm; the hardness that gathered in her countenance during her story seems to have melted away. She shifts without letting go, making herself some room beside Lion. We sit there side by side in the dark and the quiet for a long moment. A brief thought occurs to me.

"Brack's still an idiot."

Johanna barks out a surprised laugh, and I feel Lion's tired body twitch in surprise. I chuckle at Johanna's reaction as she continues laughing, as though the brief phrase is the funniest thing she's ever heard. I feel the mirth growing in my chest, fueled by the onset of so many emotions so late at night, and soon we're practically guffawing, tears leaking from our eyes. Lion is looking at us, her tail wagging slowly as if she's not sure what to make of our behavior.

I'm not quite sure what to make of it either, being awake at midnight with this girl whose wounds go just as deep as mine, holding her hand as we laugh until our stomachs ache, my nightmare forgotten, my fear and loneliness well out of sight. I'm not sure what to make of it, but at the moment I really don't mind at all.

* * *

**A/N: Thank you so much for reading and giving feedback! Please continue to favorite, follow and review, I love to hear from you guys!**


	7. Redwood

"Johanna."

The word cut through the mantle of her sleep, and her eyes opened before she realized she was awake. The room was dark for a moment, then shapes and shadows started to materialize in shades of dark grey and deeper black. Rowan was crouched beside her bunk, eyes glinting in the midnight gloom, her hand shaking Johanna's shoulder gently.

"Mm?" Johanna mumbled, her eyes sliding shut in a prolonged blink.

"Johanna, wake up. Come on."

"Uh-huh." She hadn't finished her blink yet, eyes still closed.

There were hands on her cheeks, turning her head, and then lips on hers. Johanna's eyebrows lifted, and she unconsciously leaned into the kiss, but before she had a chance to enjoy the sensation Rowan pulled away. Johanna opened her eyes, smiling slightly, but Rowan's expression was serious.

"O-kay," Johanna said, pushing herself upright. "I'm awake."

"Come on," Rowan said, standing up and tossing Johanna's coat onto her lap. She was already dressed for the weather outside, from the heavy boots laced up past her ankles to the knit cap covering her ears. Her face was inscrutable. "I want to show you something."

Johanna recognized the tone - it was the same one Rowan had used nearly a year ago when she told Johanna to cut down an entire tree on her own. She dressed quickly, throwing on a few extra long-sleeved shirts and a pair of thick wool socks.

Outside the cabin, their breath fogged in thick clouds in the biting cold. A fresh layer of snow lay on the ground, left there by the chill March night. Everything was still. As they entered the tree line, Rowan's pace sped up until she was walking so briskly there were a few times Johanna thought she was about to break into a run. Johanna asked once where they were going, but Rowan's only response was to tug her along a little faster.

They moved through the woods in silence for what felt like a long time. Despite the sound of their breathing, the chill of the air made the silence feel heavy, ethereal and strangely permanent. Rowan's path took them deeper into the forest than Johanna had ever been.

When Rowan stopped, it was so abruptly that Johanna nearly collided with her. The area was unfamiliar, but Rowan seemed perfectly sure that they had arrived in the right place. Directly ahead of them, across a moonlit clearing, was a massive redwood. Some ancient trees were cavernous, hollowed out by years of water rot and termites, but this one, though large enough to be several hundred years old, was perfectly sound. The bark, however, was deeply scarred with gashes - long ones, short ones, deep ones. Some of them looked years old, others fresh.

Johanna glanced at Rowan, seeking an explanation. Rowan was staring at the tree like she was seeing a vision. She stood stock still, eyes glittering in the light, for several long minutes. Finally, Johanna squeezed her hand softly.

"Rowan?"

She started, as though suddenly remembering she wasn't alone, but her eyes never left the tree.

"This is where my dad taught me to throw," she said.

Johanna looked back at the tree. Rowan had mentioned once in passing that her father was the one who taught her all of her considerable skill with the axe. Her statement had been brief, but Johanna had seen the pain flash across her features. The same pain saturated her voice now, though she was clearly making an effort to keep her words steady.

"I used to come here all the time after...after the fire, back before I knew Jessop very well. Sometimes I would practice throwing, sometimes I would try hacking the whole tree to splinters, sometimes I would scream or cry or talk to my parents."

There were tears in her eyes. Johanna kept quiet, but she held Rowan's hand just a little tighter.

"And sometimes I would lay down and just look." She gestured upward, and Johanna lifted her gaze. The clearing created a circular opening in the branches above. Through it, the night sky was perfectly clear, moonless. Johanna caught her breath.

Millions upon millions of stars sprayed across the black of midnight, and she felt sure she could see each and every one of them, extending into the deepest reaches of the sky. Their clear white light practically sang, cutting through the darkness and sharpening the lines of each tree branch overhead. Johanna hadn't seen a night this clear for months.

Rowan took a deep, shuddering breath, and Johanna glanced over. Her upturned face was illuminated, all the color washed away by the white light. The lines and shadows of her troubled expression were painstakingly defined. Her eyes were bright, burning in the cold nocturnal glow. For a moment she was a portrait of exquisite sorrow, purely defined in the light and shadows of the frozen forest and Johanna felt her heart ache.

"It's been two years," Rowan said quietly. She shut her eyes, a muscle spasming in her jaw as a tear slipped from each eyelid and streaked down her cheeks. "Two years, and coming here still hurts."  
"We didn't have to -" Johanna began, but Rowan looked at her, stopping her words short.

"I wanted to show you," she said. "I've never brought anyone here before, but I wanted to bring you."

"But why?"

Rowan gave Johanna's hand a gentle tug and walked across the snowy clearing to stand before the tree. Her gloved hand traced across three sets of initials carved into the bark:

A.C. - T.C.

R.C.

"Abraham and Tally Carrigan and their daughter Rowan," Rowan said quietly. She flattened her palm against the bark, covering the initials. "This is my family's tree. Dad always said it represented our family bond, the one that no one could break." She looked up the massive trunk, smiling a little as her voice deepened to imitate her father: "'This beast will be here for damn near forever, Rower. And so will we.'" Her hand dropped to her side. "He told me to always protect it, to never show it to anyone unless I wanted them to be a part of it."

She was quiet for a moment before turning to Johanna. "I want you to be part of it."

Johanna wasn't sure how to react, trying to understand what exactly that meant. Rowan continued, speaking quickly and with determination, as though trying to force the words out before her nerve could fail her.

"It's been almost a year since I met you, and it's been six months since I knew I was in love with you. I am, I'm in love with you, Johanna Mason, and I want you to be my family. I want you to stay with me. Tomorrow I'll be seventeen and I want you to come with me when I move into my own house. It'll be small and maybe not everything you've ever wanted but I'm in love with you so I have to ask, just to know that at least I tried. And if you don't want to I would understand -"

Johanna silenced her words by grabbing Rowan's face and pulling her into a kiss. Rowan hardly hesitated before wrapping herself around Johanna, kissing her back so fiercely they nearly tumbled off balance. They locked themselves together for several long moments in the light of the stars, pressed so tightly against each other that Johanna was sure she could feel Rowan's heartbeat in her own chest.

The intensity of the kiss stirred something in Johanna's abdomen, a heat that coiled and gave a certain sense of urgency to the way Rowan's body pressed against hers. She had experienced this sensation before while kissing Rowan, but with the sharpness of the stars overhead and the acute sadness that lingered in the towering redwood, it had never been more powerful than it was now.

She finally pulled away, breathless and a little lightheaded. "Of course I'll be your family, brainless. I thought I already was."

Rowan smiled a little, opening her mouth to speak, but her eyes had filled with tears again and it seemed the words wouldn't come out. Johanna hugged her tightly, knowing there probably weren't sufficient words for Rowan to express how she felt.

"I'll always stay with you. I promise."

They used Rowan's knife to carve a rough "J.M." into the tree, directly beside Rowan's initials. The cold air was heavy and silent around them as they headed back to the cabin. As they walked closely, holding hands, sides occasionally touching, Johanna felt intensely aware of the girl beside her with the shadows sliding across her freckled face. It was all there - the blonde hair falling across one shoulder from beneath her stocking cap, the steady gait as she stepped deliberately through the snow, the short breaths that fogged like smoke around her mouth and nose, interrupted by the occasional sniff against the coldness of the air, the eyebrows that were almost always serious but hardly ever angry. Everything was there, all familiar and beautiful, but something had changed, too.

Johanna felt it like a tightness in her chest, more heady than suffocating. She kept replaying the scene from moments before - Rowan standing raw and tear-stained beside the towering redwood, illuminated by the white light of the stars; her words, bold and anxious, spilling out unfiltered before she could carefully analyze them the way she usually did; how her voice had had just the barest hint of a tremor when she spoke; the brave, uncertain look in her eyes as she searched Johanna's face for a reaction. Johanna tried to imagine what kind of courage it must have taken for Rowan to bring her to that redwood, to openly confess her love in the place where all her pain and fear and sadness was closest to the surface. The sheer emotional volume of the gesture made Johanna dizzy.

The warmth from before, from when Johanna had thrown herself into Rowan's kiss, rolled in her belly. Whatever gap had existed between them – emotional or otherwise – was completely gone, and suddenly Johanna wanted nothing more than to show Rowan just how fully she intended to honor the promise she had engraved into the redwood with her initials.

Rowan looked over and met her eyes, and she realized with a start that she had been staring at Rowan for the last few minutes. The was an intensity in her gaze that told her whatever lingering sadness had followed them from the redwood tree had clearly been dispelled. Rowan's blue eyes were fierce with singularity of purpose, and the heat in Johanna's belly was suddenly a wildfire.

Then Rowan was pulling her into the cabin, closing the door behind them with careless force, and she was kissing Johanna and pushing her coat from her shoulders. Johanna found herself tossing Rowan's stocking cap and scarf to the floor as she kicked off her boots. The fingers of one hand twined roughly through Rowan's hair, her other arm looping around the small of her back to pull their bodies closer together. Rowan's breaths washed over Johanna's face, hot and intoxicating, as they stumbled back towards the bed. Her kisses were fierce, her lips moving against Johanna's hungrily.

The bed frame hit the backs of Johanna's thighs, and she fell backward onto the mattress, pulling Rowan with her. Rowan's hands fumbled with the clasp of Johanna's pants, trying to undo it. After a few unsuccessful attempts, she sat up abruptly with a frustrated sound, straddling Johanna as she wrestled with the offending button. Johanna let out an involuntary chuckle and reached down to help, but Rowan suddenly caught her wrists. She pinned them at shoulder level, hovering over Johanna.

"Do you even want this?" she asked.

Johanna felt her brow furrow. "Of course I do."

Rowan huffed through her nostrils, dropping her head. Johanna freed her hands and reached up, gently lifting Rowan's face. She studied the troubled blue eyes carefully.

"Do you want _me_?" she asked.

Rowan blinked, looking a little hurt. "Johanna, yes. Of course."

"Then what's wrong?"

"I just..." Rowan looked at the ceiling, sitting back on her heels. Johanna propped herself up on her elbows.

"I've never done this before, okay?" Rowan finally blurted. She gestured furiously at the fastening button on Johanna's pants. "I mean, _clearly_."

Johanna shifted up onto her knees so they were eye level.

"Well that's a shame," she said, a smile pulling at the corner of her mouth as she draped her arms around Rowan's shoulders, "I've done this a _million_ times before. Because, you know, everyone just can't get _enough_ of me."

Rowan sighed frustratedly. "I'm serious, Johanna. I don't want to mess this up. Not with you."

Johanna kissed her cheek softly. "It would actually be impossible for you to do that, brainless." She trailed her lips down Rowan's neck. "Because all...I want...is you," she murmured, punctuating her words with kisses. She heard Rowan's breath catch as fingers twined through her hair and then Rowan's mouth was on hers again.

She smiled into the kiss, pulling Rowan's shirt over her head. Johanna slid her hands across her bare skin, but Rowan gasped, reaching around to grab Johanna's wrists.

"You are _freezing_."

"Well," Johanna murmured, catching Rowan's earlobe between her teeth. "Warm me up."

Rowan made an unintelligible sound as she practically tackled Johanna into the pillow. Her hands were determined, ridding Johanna of her clothes in a fury. Johanna matched her intensity, and soon they were twined breathlessly together, naked beneath the blankets.

Johanna's hands, now adequately warmed by her pounding heart and Rowan's heat, slid across ribs and breasts, shoulder blades and collar bones. For a moment she pulled away from Rowan just to look, her gaze sliding across toned muscles and scarred skin. She drank it all in, her stomach twisting into pleasant knots at the sight before her. Fingers lifted her chin; Rowan's cheeks were flushed, her eyes glittering in a way Johanna had never seen before. She leaned in again and pulled herself close, pressing her mouth to Rowan's lips, trying to memorize the feeling of their bodies tangled together.

They explored each other in the warm safety of the blankets. Hands and fingers and lips traced skin and muscle. Breathless whimpers alternated with excited, nervous laughter. Johanna forgot how to breathe when Rowan's lips made their way between her legs, and the acute combination of nerves and pleasure made her tremble and beg and whisper Rowan's name until a rushing wave sent itself from groin to fingertips and sounds of wildness erupted from her throat and she left bite marks in her own arm trying to muffle the sound.

Rowan's lips found their way back up Johanna's body, earnest and warm against her mouth. Her blue eyes were deep with concern and love as she searched Johanna's face. "Are you okay? Was that okay?"

Johanna nodded but found words inadequate, so she captured Rowan's lips in a searing kiss. Her hands trailed down, the pad of her thumbs sweeping across Rowan's nipples, her palms cupping and kneading her breasts. Rowan caught her breath, a moan slipping into Johanna's mouth. One of Johanna's hands slid lower, fingertips tracing the patterns of hipbones before they found the heat between Rowan's legs. Rowan arched her back, lips and teeth parted in a silent gasp, hips grinding down on Johanna's hand. Her nails dug into Johanna's back, just enough to sting.

"Please, Johanna." Her breath was hot on Johanna's neck; her voice sounded like she was about to shatter.

Johanna kissed her throat, her collarbones, the peak of each breast, the line of her abdomen that formed a trail to her destination, then locked her arms around Rowan's thighs and buried herself between her legs. Rowan's whole body spasmed with Johanna's every movement, and it wasn't long until Johanna watched her come undone.

Rowan's spine arched, head thrown back until Johanna could only see the defined underside of her chin and the raised veins in her neck. She was silent, a statue locked in ecstasy, and Johanna had never seen anything so beautiful.

She rode out the wave and collapsed in on herself, her eyes clenched tightly shut, blonde hair disheveled, mouth open as she panted for air. She looked at Johanna after a moment, her eyes opening like she was being woken from a dream.

They folded themselves into each other, breathless and exhausted, wrapped in each other's arms. Johanna kissed her forehead, eyebrows, cheeks and nose. Rowan smiled, eyes closed.

"I love you, Rowan Carrigan," Johanna murmured into her hair. "You are mine."


	8. Games

I am watching the sun rise. I couldn't sleep anymore. The pit that has taken up permanent residence in my stomach has been keeping me from restful sleep for days now. I had put some coffee on the stove before remembering that I don't drink coffee, Johanna does. The aroma drifted across my nostrils, bringing with it the ghost of her smile, the sound of her voice, the feeling of her lips on my cheek as she kissed me good morning and I'm suddenly on the front porch, tears in my eyes and struggling to breathe as the tightness in my chest threatens to strangle me. It took me a while to calm down, my knuckles whitening on the porch railing as I breathed hard through my nostrils, trying to clear my head of the panic and fear, trying not to think of the events happening a world away in an arena watched by a hundred thousand eyes.

Now I sit on the rocking chair she made for me, watching the sky brighten over the trees. I have my arms crossed tight against my chest, trying to hold myself together.

It's been a week.

* * *

**One Week Ago - Reaping Day**

The sun has already risen. Ordinarily, we are awake long before the sun. Ordinarily, I would appreciate the chance to sleep in and relax. But today's lack of ordinariness has already driven me from bed, and I'm standing at my familiar place by the window, watching birds dart from the trees into the sky and back to the trees again.

Johanna's arms wrap around my waist, the weight of her chin comforting on my shoulder.

"You worry too much."

"Or maybe just enough," I respond.

She places a soft kiss on my neck.

"Rowan, you're not making it any easier by worrying," she murmurs against my skin.

I let her pull me around so I'm facing her. I draw in a shaky breath, meeting her eyes. Her brown hair is still messy from bed and she's thrown a blanket over her shoulders to cover her half-clothed body. Her thumb smooths across my forehead.

"You're gonna be eighty years old before your thirtieth birthday if you keep this up, Old Soul."

The faintest hint of a smile touches my lips, but it's halfhearted at best. I step into her blanketed arms and press my face into her shoulder. She strokes my hair.

"It'll be fine. This is my last year. There are literally thousands of other girls who could be chosen, you know how big District 7 is. Besides, I've already survived all the other Reapings, the odds are _clearly_ in my favor."

Her sarcastic humor does little to calm my churning stomach.

"But what if they're not?" I ask into her shoulder.

She doesn't respond, only presses her cheek to my head, holding me just a little tighter.

* * *

The square is already filled with people when we arrive. Those above eighteen are gathered in a large group while the ones of Reaping age are standing in line, waiting to be blood tested and then shuffled off to stand in their respective age and gender groups.

Capitol workers are busying themselves with setting up a video feed to the other town squares. Up on stage is a large sign with SECTOR 3 in bold purple letters. District 7 is too large for the Reaping to be in one place, so they broadcast the four other sectors on large screens around the stage. Every Reaping, Eunia Honeyman rotates through the sectors and this year it's our turn. She's onstage in transparent heels that force her to stand practically on tiptoe, wearing what looks like a cloud. The puffy white bodysuit nearly engulfs her figure, only made more ridiculous by an obnoxious neon yellow and orange headpiece that a Capitol designer must have meant to look like the sun.

Johanna leans over to me, her eyes fixed on the woman on stage. "Rowan, if there ever comes a time that I admire what that woman is wearing, I want you to immediately kill me."

I nod, my tone serious. "Don't worry, I will."

A Peacekeeper comes toward us, directing her towards the blood test tables, and she lets go of my hand.

"I'll see you in a minute," she says calmly.

I meet her eyes and she smiles, but I see the muted fear she's been trying to hide all morning.

"See you in a minute."

It takes nearly an hour for all the potential Tributes to get checked in and properly assembled. I wish Jessop was here to keep me company, but he was picked to be on the minimum crew this year. Most of us are excused from work on Reaping Day, but they always choose a few individuals from each crew to continue work in the forest and the mills so production doesn't grind to a complete halt.

Eunia Honeyman finally takes the microphone. She's had another operation since the last Reaping. This time, it looks like her mouth has been surgically altered so it can't open more than two inches or so lengthwise. I've never seen anyone more artificially composed in my life. Her face is so plasticized it's a wonder she can even speak at all. She manages to make it work, though, and her Capitol accent is nauseating as ever as she welcomes us to the Reaping. Her speech is agonizingly drawn out as she individually thanks all of the Capitol crewmen and officials for attending and helping with the broadcast of the Reaping, and expresses her own excitement for the upcoming Games "which are sure to be simply _thrilling_."

Finally, the video about the revolution and Great War begins to play. President Snow's voice echoes across the square as he reminds us of the uprising, defeat and subsequent sacrifice of the Districts. By now I've memorized the words.

The video ends, and Eunia draws the boy's name first.

"Ambrose Dale."

I don't recognize the name. Up on the Sector 1 screen, the Peacekeepers pull him from the crowd. He's an older boy, stocky but soft. He must be a mill worker, probably one of the machine operators. As Eunia congratulates him, the sound of weeping comes in over the microphones and I can see a tall man holding a dark-haired woman as she sobs. The camera follows Ambrose Dale's progress as he makes his way unsteadily to the front of the crowd. His skin is blanched white as he stands alone in front of the camera, blank-eyed and trembling.

"Now for the girls."

My heart clenches. I glance over to find Johanna already looking at me. Her mouth shrugs in a half-smile. I can't muster the strength to return the gesture. I look away, back towards the stage. My palms are sweating. I try to be calm, watching Eunia Honeyman totter over to the glass ball that holds a thousand folded names. She picks one up, flashing it to the crowd like a grand prize. My stomach turns over.

Johanna said it herself: District 7 is huge. The chance of the female tribute even being from our sector is slim - we have far fewer names in that orb than any of the massive groups up on the screen. And thanks to Jessop and our Foreman, we have never wanted for food so her name has never gone into the Reaping ball more than once a year. Six times. Six chances out of thousands that her name will be called. The odds are in her favor.

Eunia Honeyman leans into the microphone: "Johanna Mason."

The ground drops away beneath my feet. Everything goes fuzzy behind my eyes. My heart has stopped, but the sound of my breathing roars in my ears.

No.

Eyes are on me and I realize the word was shouted aloud.

I scream again, this time pushing through the crowd toward Johanna.

"NO."

I search for her, but she isn't where she was a moment ago. The Peacekeepers are stooping and I realize she has collapsed. They hoist her up by her arms and she's hysterical, begging them, pleading for them not to take her. She's practically limp in their arms, helpless. Her eyes dart to me, filled with tears, and she screams my name. Hands on my chest push me back, close around my arms and hold me. My heart has started again and everything is much too warm.

"Johanna!"

"Please, Rowan, no, please!"

I can do nothing but call her name as she calls mine, begging for my help. There are tears in my eyes and panic churns in my gut.

Through the turmoil, it occurs to me that this is unusual.

Not that I blame her; many Tributes have collapsed in throes of despair upon being Reaped. But the girl I see being hauled away and up the stairs to the stage is not the Johanna I know. As she stands beside Eunia Honeyman, head down and trembling, hands hiding her tears, I realize I am shocked in more ways than one.

My Johanna would have either fought the Peacekeepers viciously, or she would have marched up to the stage on her own after snarling "don't touch me" at the men in white. She would have stood beside that ridiculous cloud woman and met every pretentious word with a silent glare, not humored the shallow comments with a feeble, watery smile like she's doing now.

Eunia congratulates the two tributes, and Ambrose Dale is escorted off-camera while Johanna is taken down behind the stage.

I am taken in a separate vehicle to the train station, then ushered by Peacekeepers into the holding room. Johanna is standing with her back to me, shoulders hunched and face still in her hands.

"You have five minutes," the Peacekeeper says.

The door closes behind me and Johanna turns, her back straightening and hands dropping to her sides. I am startled to see her eyes dry and her face set in a hard expression. She crosses the space between us in a few strides. Her hand clamps on the back of my neck and she kisses me hard, holding me tightly against her. It only takes a moment for me to recover from my surprise and kiss her back. At least half of our five minutes is consumed while we are locked together, and I don't mind.

She finally breaks away, pressing her forehead against mine for a moment to catch her breath. My hands are on her chest, fingertips resting against her collarbones; I can feel her heartbeat in my palms. She leans away slightly and takes my face in her hands.

"I have to perform for them, Rowan. I have to make them underestimate me."

I process her words, nodding. Her outrageous show of weakness and fear suddenly makes sense. It's smart. The Careers, the promising tributes, those are the ones everyone keeps their eyes on. Those are the ones everyone expects to demolish the weak and the young ones. No one will be expecting the weak ones to fight back.

"Do what you have to," I respond.

She takes a deep breath, letting it out slowly. "There's another thing, Rowan."

I meet her eyes expectantly. She hesitates for a moment, then forges ahead.

"I don't want you to watch."

"What?" I ask, startled.

"Don't watch," she says again. "Work long shifts if you have to, stay in the workers cabins, but don't watch."

Her eyes are fixed on mine, her expression urgent. "Whatever happens..." She pauses and there is a rush of fear and uncertainty in her eyes. "Whatever happens, I don't want you to see."

I suddenly think of her standing before the crowds of the Capitol, under the bright lights of Caesar Flickerman's stage. I think of her in the garish Capitol-style costumes and makeup as her training scores and intimate life details - _our_ life details - flash across the massive screens. I think of her in the arena, fighting for her life as thousands upon thousands of people look on and cheer. I suddenly know that I can't be one of those people.

"I won't," I say, "I promise."

"Okay," she says.

She kisses me again, softer this time, then I pull her into a hug.

I'm tempted to make a demand of my own, to make her promise too - to win, to kill, to play the Games. But this is neither the time nor the place for her to be promising me anything and we both know that. My throat closes and there are tears in my eyes.

"I love you," she whispers.

"Come back," I tell her. The words are strangled. I lean back, putting my hands on her shoulders, avoiding her gaze because of the tears that blind me. "Just come back to me."

She kisses my forehead and the door opens.

"Time's up."

Peacekeepers pull me away and Johanna is suddenly weeping loudly, clutching at my shirt and hands. I know her hysteria isn't real but it breaks my heart and I don't even look at her as I am taken from the room.

It's not until the door has closed again behind me that I realize I might never see her again.


	9. Scarred

**A/N: Another POV shift! Third person this time. Hope no one gets too confused. Also, please forgive me for the ridiculously long absence. I was gone all of June so my writing kind of fell off the boat, and then I was caught up in a bunch of other stuff. But I'm back now so let's do this thing!**

* * *

Not more than a week after Johanna had returned from the Victory Tour, there was a knock at the door. Johanna and Rowan were on the couch. Rowan had a sketchbook in her hands, and Johanna was whittling away at a small block of wood. The head of a bird was just becoming distinguishable from the wooden mass. At the sound, they both looked up at the door, then at each other.

"I didn't invite anyone over," Rowan said before Johanna could ask. She set her sketchbook down and rose to open the door. Blight stood there. He had a letter in his hands. Johanna could see the envelope had already been opened.

"Rowan," he acknowledged, his voice level. "Can I come in?"

Rowan nodded as she stood back to allow him entrance. He ducked slightly as he stepped into the living room. Blight was a massive man, broad at the shoulders and well over six feet tall. Johanna wasn't surprised he had won the Games so swiftly when he was a tribute; even as a young man he must have been a giant among his peers. His blonde hair was cropped short in a nondescript cut, contrasting with the thick reddish beard that covered most of his face. He wore a jacket against the chill of the oncoming winter. He stopped a few paces short of the couch and held out the letter.

From where she sat, Johanna could see the Capitol's seal. She made no move to take the letter from his hand, her gaze flicking from the envelope to his face.

"Well? What does it say?"

Blight remained silent. Johanna laughed without humor. "I know you already opened it. Just tell me what the fucker wants from me now."

Blight sighed, his hand dropping. "He requests our presence in the Capitol. A Victor's gathering, they have one every year after the Tour."

"When is it?"

Blight scratched his beard, looking away. "Day after tomorrow."

"_No._" Johanna's voice cut low and quick across the room.

"Johanna -"

"I'm not going."

"You have to."

"I was just _there._ I just got _back_."

"It's not a request, Johanna."

"Then Snow's gonna have to drag me all the way there himself."

"He won't have to because I will."

Johanna's teeth automatically bared at his words. She placed the block of wood on the floor, standing with the knife still clutched in her fist. "Is that so, Blight?"

The man took a step back, palms forward, "Johanna," he said slowly, "I'm not threatening you. This is to protect you. Snow is not a man who takes lightly to being refused."

"I don't _care_," Johanna snarled. "I'm. Not. _Going_."

"Johanna." Rowan's voice was sharp. She had been standing silently near the door, arms folded, but now she stepped forward, drawing level with Blight. Johanna's eyebrows lifted at her tone. "You're going to the Capitol. Not because you want to, but because you have to." Her voice softened slightly, but something about it still commanded Johanna's attention. Rowan took a few steps closer until they were toe-to-toe. Her eyes were serious, "You're going to go and play nice and shake hands, and then you'll come home, understand me?"

Johanna's eyes left Rowan's. She tried staring a hole through the wall beyond Rowan's head, her jaw clenching. Rowan's fingers curled gently around her wrist, but she jerked away.

"Johanna -"

She ignored her and stormed to the door, throwing it open. Gesturing dramatically outside with her knife, she looked at Blight, her eyes cold.

"You can go now."

Blight looked uncertainly at Rowan.

"I'll meet you at the train station tomorrow, _alright?_" Johanna snapped, irritated that of the three of them, she was the one filling the role of unruly child.

Blight nodded and strode toward the door, handing the letter to Johanna on his way out, "The details are in there."

"Thanks," Johanna said venomously, and slammed the door behind him.

She stood facing the closed door, glaring into the grain of the wood.

Her whole frame trembled. The silence stretched, the reverberation of the slammed door seeming to grow louder in the emptiness. Johanna's grip was a vice on the knife; the paper of the envelope crinkled as her fingers curled into a fist. She shut her eyes, breathing hard through her nose, feeling her temper begin to spiral out of control. A tiny voice in the back of her head told her to run, to get out of the house now before this escalated, but the louder part of her roared for conflict. For retribution for this injustice.

"How many days will you be gone?" Rowan's voice was softer than it had been before.

"How should I know?" Johanna retorted sharply, not bothering to turn around.

"It probably says in the letter..." Rowan began. Johanna moved like lightning, turning on one heel and flinging the thick envelope at her. Rowan jumped, raising her arm just in time to deflect the missile. It bounced off her forearm and landed on the couch.

"Why don't you open it and see?" Johanna snarled.

Rowan's eyes flicked from the fallen letter up to Johanna, her eyebrows meeting.

"What is your problem?" Her voice was low.

"My _problem_?" Johanna repeated. "My _problem_, lover mine, is that you just fucking betrayed me."

"Betrayed-?"

"_Yes_, betrayed me," Johanna snapped.

She could feel heat curling in her chest. Through the Victory Tour weeks, she had held herself together by compressing the horror of the Games into a dense, hot parcel that rested at her core. It had twisted within her when she visited the Districts, when her voice rang empty across bleak, silent crowds. It had been a lead weight in her stomach when she was forced to recall the details of each tribute's death, the scenes appearing in her mind uninvited as the dead tributes' eyes stared at her from the faces of destitute family members. It had snarled in her ear when the horizon swallowed the sun, had dragged her into waking visions of terror where she flailed in the darkness of the sleeping car, desperate for her ax but unable to find it. It had risen in her throat, vile and burning, when she shook the President's hand, smelled blood on his breath, and waved for the howling, turbulent sea of neon faces.

And now it rose inside her, swelling to fill every empty space with red heat. She felt her nostrils flaring, her shoulders flexing as she met the brutality of her emotions head on.

Her words surged unchecked from her lips. "You don't _understand_. I just got here. I've been gone, Rowan, for months. I killed my way through the Games to make it back home, and I was ruthless, you have no _idea_. I went on the Tour and smiled and waved for those Capital idiots. I paid my dues, and I did it so I could come home and be left in peace. So I could come home and be with _you_ and not have to think about the Games or the Capitol or President Snow ever again." Her voice was loud, roaring in her own ears, filling the room with a muffled echoing rage. "I did all of it, every horrible minute, for you. For _us_. But it's like you don't even want me here anymore. You've been distant since I got back, you've hardly touched me except to hold me after nightmares. And now here you are, all for throwing me out the door and back to those...those... _hyenas."_

"No, I -"

"Don't interrupt me," Johanna said harshly, "You listen." Rowan's mouth closed, and Johanna continued. "You don't know what it's like there, with them. Everywhere you turn, they're there in those stupid outfits and makeup, fawning over you. They won't shut up about how _exhilarated,_ how _mesmerized _they were when I-" Her voice rose in mocking imitation of the ridiculous Capitol accent - "'chopped _straight through_ that Dictrict 11 boy's spine' or when I 'strangled the life from the little dark girl from District 3.'" Johanna could feel her teeth showing. "They always ask me to tell them exactly how it felt when my traps went off so perfectly that the log swung _right into_ the boy's skull."

The words were white hot in her memory, and suddenly every scene from the arena that consumed her nightmares was flashing in fast forward behind her eyes: the tiny gasp of the little girl who hardly realized Johanna's hands were on her before she snapped her neck; the inhuman screaming of the towering boy who lost both his eyes in a fight against a Career; the bloody, headless carcass of the District 9 tribute after he stumbled into Johanna's clever log trap; the sad blue eyes and gentle voice of the girl who was the last to die before Johanna became Victor. They just kept coming, each one building on the pain of the last.

Johanna's heart was racing. She fought with the words as they poured from her chest, her eyes blurring with tears. "They just can't get enough of how good I am at _killing_. It's amazing to them. They love it. They love me. I'm a murderer and they _love me._" Johanna's voice broke. Her face was twisted into a humorless grin.

Rowan didn't speak. Silent tears were already making their way down her cheeks. Her expression was pained. She looked like she was struggling for something to say, anything to alleviate the onslaught of emotion that Johanna was caught in.

Johanna felt wild. The parcel in her chest was screaming. She wanted to rip her skin off. She wanted to shatter windows and burn everything down. She wanted to fall at Rowan's feet and beg for death or for a beating or for reassurance that she was alright. She wanted to give herself over to the madness that was tearing her apart. She gritted her teeth, the angry grin widening as the tears broke free of her eyes.

"Did you watch?" Johanna asked suddenly.

Rowan blinked, her mouth opening slightly, as though stumped by a trick question, "I promised you I wouldn't.

"But did you watch?" Johanna repeated, her voice hard.

Rowan shook her head.

Johanna took a step forward. "You didn't see the monster I was. I killed children. _Children_, Rowan. So young they still screamed in terror and begged for their lives and cried until their cannons went off." Her voice was grating, dragging its claws across her throat and tongue. She took another step forward. "And I did it all without any regret because I wanted to come home to you."

Another step. Their faces were only a few inches apart now. The tears were flowing freely down Johanna's cheeks. She searched Rowan's eyes, finding familiarity in the particular shade of blue. Johanna felt like sinking into the floor, like crumbling into a million pieces - anything to disappear, anything to stop existing.

When she spoke again, her voice was desperate, a painful sound just above a whisper. "I told you not to watch because I didn't want you to know. I didn't want you to see. But Rowan. I don't think it matters. Because I was a monster in the Games, and I'm a monster now, and now you'll know."

The knife and letter slipped from her limp fingers. Her knees buckled and suddenly there were arms around her. Rowan caught her sagging weight. She pulled her back to lay on the couch as Johanna unraveled, sobbing into Rowan's chest. Her whole body shook with violent spasms, her hands clenched in claws on Rowan's shirt, the sound escaping her teeth like the dying scream of a wild animal. Rowan held her tightly, fighting the force of her tremors as best she could.

Minutes passed into an hour before Johanna's muscles began to unwind. The noise in her throat faded to a whimper. She trembled, weary, her chest shaking with the hiccough of ragged breaths. The sound echoed in the stillness of the house. Her cheek pressed against Rowan's heartbeat. The warm, steady rhythm slowed her thoughts, her racing terror. Rowan looked down at her, eyes deep with worry, forehead heavy with sadness. She gently stroked her cheek.

"I can't," Johanna whispered once she had regained control of her breathing. Her voice was raw. "I can't play this game anymore."

Rowan was silent, but her arms tightened around Johanna, pulling her closer. She kissed Johanna's forehead, her lips lingering. Johanna closed her eyes at the gentleness of the touch.

"I knew what I was in for," Rowan said finally, "when I said goodbye to you on Reaping Day. We've seen the Games. We've known there's more to winning than fame and money. I knew when I promised not to watch that you would transform in the arena. That you would emerge a different person than the one that went in. Every Victor does."

She paused, collecting her words, then continued, "You're right, I haven't seen what you've done. I haven't seen what you've seen. But you did what you had to so you could come home. You might condemn yourself for that sacrifice, but I won't, because it brought you back to me. Whatever may have changed about you, it's still you here in my arms now, and I haven't forgotten that."

Tears slid from beneath Johanna's eyelids, down her temples and into her hair. Rowan's fingers brushed away the wet tracks they left behind.

Her lips pressed against Johanna's right eyebrow, the tip of her nose, her mouth.

The kiss was earnest and gentle. Rowan's hand pressed softly against her cheek. She did not pull away after a short while, as she had since Johanna had returned from the Tour. Her lips explored the contours of Johanna's mouth like it was the first time and not the hundredth that she had gotten to taste her. Johanna responded in kind, her arms wrapping around Rowan's neck to pull her closer. The barest hint of a whimper escaped Rowan's throat and Johanna's eyes opened in surprise. She pulled away slightly.

"What?" she whispered hoarsely, "What did I do?"

Rowan shook her head, pressing her forehead to Johanna's. "Nothing, I just...I'm sorry," she whispered, a tear slipping down her cheek, "for keeping you at a distance. It's not because I was afraid of you. I was trying to give you space to recover from the arena. I - I didn't know how bad it had been for you, so I thought maybe you wouldn't be able to handle us...doing anything for a while."

Johanna cupped Rowan's chin, forcing her gaze up. She looked into the teary blue eyes for a long moment, then murmured, "I need you to be close to me."

Rowan's response was to capture Johanna's lips in her own again. Johanna wrapped her arms tight around her torso, then, without breaking the kiss, swung her legs over the edge of the couch. She stood, lifting Rowan bridal style, and carried her down the hall to their room.

The setting sun shone through the window as trembling fingers tossed clothes to the floor and lips moved against exposed skin. They climbed onto the bed, hands tangling in hair, fingers trailing across throats and ribs. Johanna buried herself in Rowan's scent, in the taste of her lips, the exquisite lines and curves of her body. They wrapped themselves up in each other, trying to remember the counts of their altered dance.

Despite the warm familiarity as their bodies moved together, Johanna felt a rawness, a desperation that had never found its way past the bedroom threshold before. It sharpened her need, drawing her tight, bringing an acuteness to the back of her tongue and the tips of her fingers, changing the way she touched Rowan, changing the way she felt her.

Rowan sensed the difference and moved with it. She pulled their bodies closer together when Johanna startled away from a phantom Rowan couldn't see. She took Johanna's face firmly and gently in her hands, bringing her back to reality when Johanna became lost in an unwelcome memory. And when Johanna moved inside her with unfamiliar roughness, Rowan buried her face in Johanna's neck and whimpered words of love until the waves rippled, and then Johanna's name escaped her lips like a prayer and they fell together and kissed swollen lips and let sleep claim them in the warm darkness.


End file.
